Kill Katniss: A Hunger GamesKill Bill Mash-up
by Killbill12
Summary: "Looked dead, didn't I? Well I wasn't. Actually, Katniss' last arrow put me in a coma-a coma I was to lie in for four years. I've killed a hell of a lot of people to get to this point, but I have only one more. The one I'm driving to right now. And when I arrive at my destination, I am going to kill Katniss." -Peeta Mellark
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: ②**

I stop the pink, frilly hovercraft at the path leading to his house. The moss-covered cobblestone is littered with children's toys. Seashells, little rakes, and nets lie in the sparse grass amid the sand. The sandbox is clean yet disordered, a clear sign that a child has been at play here. The land is well-kept but not too attention-grabbing: clearly the home of a former celebrity that doesn't want to be found.

I hop out of the craft and walk slowly up the steep hill to the front steps. The surrounding dunes behind the house leave only its thatched roof unconcealed. Strike two, Odair.

I observe, but don't admire, the golden trident moldings surrounding the door frame after using the knocker in the shape of a palm tree.

"Coming!" I hear his heavy steps coming toward the door. "That was a short walk, Love. Are you two ok-?"

As soon as he opens the door, I find myself staring into a pair of distressed sea-green eyes. His charming smile disappears and he stands there frozen, staring at the man he once thought was dead.

Over top of him, I see the image of him standing over me. Dressed in his white uniform tinted with a light sea-blue color, he holds his trident next to himself and looks down on me. Never again.

I throw the first punch. He staggers back just enough to allow my entrance. I try to kick him, but his arm swipes my foot away. Now leaning completely on my prosthetic leg, I'm caught off guard when he grabs my flailing arm and throws me at a framed portrait of a boat in the sea behind him. I roll onto the cabinet below it and land on the floor in a hail of glass. Once I look up, I see his sandaled foot about to come down hard onto my face. I block it with my forearms and he brings his leg back up to hit me again. I take the advantage and kick him in his now exposed groin. He immediately doubles over and is about to kneel in pain when I kick him in the face.

My powerful leg sends him flying backwards over his couch and onto his glass coffee table. It shatters all around him and he struggles to get on his hands and knees, grunting. As I climb over the couch, he grabs one of the table's thick wood legs and hits me hard on the knee with it, right where my real leg ends and my prosthetic starts. I crouch in pain, avoiding the leg now aimed at my face. He shows impressive skill with the eight-inch peg, whirling it around me. I grab it, and the two of us are sent grappling on the ground. Finally, I wrestle it away from him and throw it away.

I now have him in a head-lock. He may be the more experienced fighter, but I'm heavier and have been wrestling since I was five. I'm choking him now, and he's gasping for air. It's looking like I'll asphyxiate him right here and now until he reaches for a little fishing spear amidst his umbrellas. He hits me on the head and I cry out, falling backwards onto the tiles of the floor. He wastes no time getting up, and turns over an entire glass shelf of fragile sea shells and breakable knick-knacks. I curl up to protect myself from the shards of glass as porcelain plates and ships-in-bottles shatter around me.

He seems temporarily satisfied leaving me in the fetal position amidst the wreckage, so he runs into another room. I hurry to get up, biting my lip as I endure the pain of several cuts on my hands and forearms. When I follow him into the next room, I have to duck right away to avoid a trident whizzing over my face. Oh, no.

He's got me on his turf now; nobody's more skilled with a trident than Finnick Odair. I manage to dodge most of his attacks as he forces me backwards through the kitchen. I impulsively grab a frying pan off his counter and use that as a provisional weapon. It keeps me in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room until he cuts me on the wrist, forcing me to drop the pan. He gives me a swift kick on the chest that sends me staggering backward onto the dining table.

I slip off the table and slide under it just as he jumps on it, stabbing through the table instead of my torso. With him stuck on the table, I finally have the chance to use the machete on my belt. I easily stab up through the table and just miss his face. I pull the knife out at the last second before tipping the whole table over and sending him with it. The table now forms a barrier in the doorway between the dining room and foyer where we started our fight. We both jump up and look over the table at one another.

"Come on, Peeta!" he shouts through the blood and sweat dripping from his face.

I accept his challenge and hop over the table. We each point our weapons at one another cautiously, ready for the other to pounce at any moment. As he slowly backs into the living room, I follow him carefully. I swipe my machete and he immediately jabs his trident, then he does the same to me. Our paranoid game continues until we reach the window. Then, we hear a child's happy feet skipping up the cobblestone path.

Annie's soft, motherly laugh follows the skipping feet, though I can't make out the words she says. The child scampers up the steps and it hits me: I'm standing in its trashed home pointing a big knife at its father. I look into Finnick's eyes and see them start to calm. He slowly shakes his head pleadingly; he doesn't want his child or wife to witness this.

His silent plea pulls on my heart. I grit my teeth and glare at him, relenting just as Annie opens the door for the child. Finnick and I quickly hide our weapons behind our backs, knowing that a mad girl and an innocent child won't question the positions of our hands.

Annie is smiling down upon a little boy standing below her. A little boy. Why hadn't Plutarch told me about him? Nevertheless, I'm standing here, watching him and his mother walk in. They have no idea what's in store for them.

"Daddy, we're back!" the child's voice falters once he sees the destruction; as does his mother's smile.

"Hey, buddy!" Finnick echoes weakly. "How was your walk?"

The boy and his mother stare into the living room covered in glass that still falls around the room. The two men standing amidst the wreckage do their best to make things seem normal.

"Finnick," says Annie unsurely. "What happened to you in the sitting room?"

"Oh," Finnick plots. "I opened that bay window and a pelican got in here. It practically tore the room apart."

Annie walks forward steadily, urging her son behind her protectively. She wraps her arms around the back of her neck, clearly affected by the mess and the sight of her bloody husband.

"A pelican did all _this_?" She asks Finnick.

Finnick stops her. "Now, Love. Don't come in here. All this broken glass could cut you, and then you'd have another panic attack." However, all three of the adults in the house know that a possible injury isn't the only thing in the room that would cause her anxiety.

Annie hears his words, and then steps back before covering her ears for a moment and doing her best not to look at the mess or the former celebrity before her. The boy, however, has no problem staring at me. And he does so with such vigor that one would think I have two heads. Finnick catches his eye.

"This is an old friend of Daddy's that I haven't seen in a long time." He gestures to me.

"Hey, buddy," I say between deep breaths. "I'm Peeta. What's your name?"

The boy doesn't answer. He simply stares at me with big sea-green eyes identical to his father's as his mother cringes at the sound of my voice.

"His name is Magnus," Finnick answers for him.

"Magnus," I say in an upbeat tone. "I take it you were meant to be named after your father's mentor? She was a great lady. Sacrificed herself for me."

Once I mention the Quell, Annie whimpers quietly and Finnick clears his throat angrily as Magnus tilts his head. Obviously the boy is unfamiliar with what his country was like before his parents worked to change it. I hastily change the subject.

"How old are you, Magnus?"

Again, the silent treatment. Finnick doesn't let it happen this time.

"Magnus, Peeta asked you a question."

Magnus tilts his head again. "I'm four."

"Four years old?" I say with an edge in my voice. Once again, I get to thinking about what could've been. "You know, there was a time when I thought I'd be able to have a child. That child would be about four now."

I don't notice the longing and regret in my voice until I glance over at a slightly surprised Finnick. However, everyone in the room is aware of the resentment displayed in my voice, although I'm sure Magnus doesn't know about Katniss. Finnick fills the awkward silence.

"Now Magnus," he takes a knee in front of his son and places a hand on his shoulder. "My friend and I have some adult talk to talk about. So I want you to lead your mother upstairs and stay in our bedroom with her until I tell you to come back down. Okay?"

Magnus is suddenly interested in me again.

Finnick taps Magnus on the cheek with his palm and speaks sternly. "Magnus, upstairs _now_."

Magnus takes his mother's hand and guides her upstairs, giving her soothing words as she mumbles incoherent nonsense and covers her ears. When Finnick is sure they're upstairs, he invites me to the kitchen.

"You want some tea?" he offers.

"Sure," I shrug. We walk slowly to the kitchen, finally able to reveal our weapons. As we pass by the front door, I close it. Even after all these years, I still pay attention to detail.

A little information on Finnick Odair: He's currently a full-time volunteer fisherman down at the docks near his home in District 4. But back when I knew him, he was a victor of the Hunger Games, living a life of luxury and forced prostitution before being shipped off to another Hunger Games.

When they were stopped, he was rescued from the arena by District 13 personnel and once again turned into a sex symbol- this time _against_ the Capitol. However, he was also a rebel soldier who took part in each of their excursions. He and his wife Annie moved here to escape from the spotlight shortly after the overthrow. And apparently they had a kid, too. Noted.

Now, I'm standing in his kitchen, sipping tea, and wiping most of the blood off of me with a small beach towel. He's standing on the other side of the room, leaning over the kitchen sink.

"So I suppose it's a little late for an apology, huh?" He says.

"You suppose correctly," I say dryly, wrapping the towel around a wound.

"Look, bastard," he says as he advances toward me threateningly. "I need to know if you're going to start anything else around my baby boy and my woman."

"You can relax for now," I say nonchalantly, then whisper: "I'm not going to murder to you in front of your family, okay?"

Finnick relaxes and pats his chin with a rag. "That's being more rational than Katniss led me to believe you were capable of." He heads back to the sink.

"It's mercy, compassion, and forgiveness that I lack," I answer before leaning menacingly on the bar. "Not rationality."

He's silent for a moment, and then looks up with guilt in his face. "Look," he starts. "I know I betrayed you. I wish wholeheartedly that I hadn't, but I did. You have every right to want to get even."

This guy must be joking. I laugh cruelly at him. "No, no, no, no, no, no," I chuckle. "To get even, you Capitol pet, I would have to kill you, go upstairs to where your wife is probably crying and kill her, and then go into little Magnus' room and kill him. That would be even, Finnick. That'd be about square." I draw a square in the air with my finger and smile slyly.

"Look, I was always on your side when it came to Katniss. I believed that what you had was real. I didn't agree with anything that I did back there. I had to do it for the good of Panem."

"Oh, great," I say in mock relief before returning to my business-like stance. "I don't care. You still did it."

Finnick gets angrier and walks over to a cork board on the wall. "Well be that as it may, I know I don't deserve your mercy or your forgiveness." He pulls a photo off the board. "But I beseech you for both on behalf of my son." He thrusts the picture a mere inch from my face. I can clearly see the picturesque scene of the two beautiful former victors smiling and holding their son on the beach. I am appalled by his audacity, thinking he can change my mind.

"You son of a bitch," I laugh and shake my head. "You can stop right there. Just because I have no wish to murder you before the eyes of your innocent son and fragile wife does not mean that parading them around in front of me is going to inspire sympathy. You and I have unfinished business. And not a damn thing you've done in these subsequent four years, including knocking up that crazy bitch, is going to change that."

He realizes he's defeated and sets the picture down. "So when _do_ we do this?"

"All depends" I answer with an edge in my voice. "When _do_ you want to die? Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow?"

"How about tonight, Bread Boy?" He nearly interrupts me.

"Splendid. Where?"

"There's a sand pit about a mile from here where I do a children's exercise class. We meet there tonight dressed all in tan: your hair in a light brown stocking. And we have ourselves a wrestling match. We won't be bothered. Now!" He raises a finger and laughs when I flinch. "I have to get Annie's medication; now that you've got her all nervous."

I back up into the wall with my tea as he approaches the cabinet and takes out a large pill bottle and a glass for water. I take this opportunity to strike up a strained conversation.

"You know, Katniss always said you were the most charming guy she'd ever met."

Finnick laughs hard and stamps his foot, looking at me with his classic smile for the first time since our little talk when Katniss was asleep during the Quell.

"Fuck you, boy," he says. "I know she never cared about that. So you can just kiss my trident, Bread Boy." He walks to a small room next to the refrigerator to pour water into the glass. He returns with a remembering look on his face. "You never did believe anything I said about Katniss."

He's going to try to talk to me now. Stay strong, Mellark.

"You were the most charming, kind-hearted boy I had ever met," he continues. "It's amazing, the transformation you went through. Anyway, regardless of what you may think, she had strong feelings for you. And nobody knows more about love than I do."

Conceited bastard. Alright, I can take it from here. "Being a love expert: new weapon of choice? If you want to stick with your out-of-date trident, that's fine with me."

He laughs again and turns back around. "Very funny, Bread Boy."

I rejoice in my wit by sipping my tea calmly.

"Very funny!" he repeats at the top of his lungs. At the moment he says this I hear something burn through the wall right next to my head. I stare at the growing hole and find a laser beam. I trace it back to Finnick. There in his hand is a small plasma gun. Who knew he would keep former rebel technology in his wife's medication bottles?

Nevertheless, I should feel lucky he missed. I guess all these years of playing house with his pacifist wife have softened him. He must be pretty surprised, too; he's staring at the hole, probably wondering how he missed me when I'm six feet in front of him.

I seize the opportunity to distract him once more. I drop my cup and kick it towards him. My plan works when he dodges it. As he watches the little porcelain thing dotted with little sailboats shatter on the wall next to him, I pull out my machete and do what I have to do.

The thing doesn't even spin as it plunges into his chest and out of his back. His head hits the cabinet and his body slides slowly to the ground, his sweaty bronze hair squeaking against the glass cabinet. He hits the ground with a thump and looks up at me with pleading sea-green eyes that made so many Capitol sponsors melt. The pills spill in an array in the puddle of water now on the floor.

I don't even notice that I'm still in throwing position until I decide to take a step forward. I cautiously let my arm down and inch toward him. The surprise and horror in his eyes are unlike anything I've ever seen. After all, the only person I ever killed in the Games was Brutus, and it was too dark in the arena to his face.

Finnick breathes one final, strained breath before letting his head fall, the twinkle in his eyes finally going out.

I bend over to pull my machete slowly from his torso, keeping my eyes on his dead face the entire time. I stand up quickly, looking down on him with absolutely no regret. Then I hear the noise. Child's feet again.

I know what's waiting behind me, but I don't want to face it. I turn around slowly and there he is: Magnus.

He must've come down to check on his father. I don't hear any incoherent mumbling coming from upstairs in this now quiet house, so I assume Annie's asleep. And now Magnus and I are alone, standing in front of his father's carcass. Why couldn't he just stay upstairs?

I look into the pair of innocent sea-green eyes standing before me. They seem to ask, why did you kill my daddy? And I have no answers. So, I sigh and whip around to grab another towel to clean my machete. I look up at the ceiling as I clean the weapon and pour my thoughts onto the boy.

"It was not my intention to do this in front of you. And for that I'm sorry. But you can take my word for it: Your father had it coming."

I put the machete back on its hook on my belt and throw the towel back on the counter. Slowly, I turn back to the boy and look down upon his face. Though he doesn't seem fazed at all, I can tell he heeded my words. Now, I'll deliver unto him a final message, squinting at him.

"When you grow up, if you still feel raw about it, I'll be waiting."

With that, I turn and exit. He doesn't even move as my feet crunch over the pills scattered over the tiled floor.

As I walk through his living room, out his front door, across his sandy lawn and out into his street, I don't think of him. I only think of the words that Haymitch gave me before I departed for the Quell. I've never spoken of them once:

"When you're out in that arena, you can't be your normal sweet self. Suppress that baker's warmth and use that fire that I know you have. Kill whoever tries to kill you or Katniss, even if it be someone who you thought was an ally. More importantly, stay alive."

Those last two words are what I think of when I hop into my hovercraft and finally decide to look back at Finnick's home sitting perfectly on the dune. I pull out my death list and cross his name off. Two down, three to go. I turn the craft on and hover down the road to my next destination.


	2. Chapter 2

I hope you all enjoyed Chapter 1! If there's any confusion, please feel free to post a comment or question!

**Chapter 2: The Blood-Splattered Victor**

The small wedding chapel hidden between the many run-down shops in the outskirts of the Capitol was the perfect place for the rebels to strike. Snow had planned it here to keep it hidden from the public. Because of the war, all Capitol residents had been evacuated from the area. However, there was no fighting here. It was a barren wasteland except for the eleven people that snuck in for the fake wedding.

Ironically, this happened to be where the rebels were shooting their promos, heavily armed and protected by the Holo. They at no time expected Snow to be here, let alone the others that were also there.

Once they found them, they sent for three more people to be placed on the squad. Coin wanted to be Snow's executioner, Plutarch wanted to document the whole thing, and Prim wanted to know for sure that Peeta was there. Katniss, Gale, and Finnick waited for them as the rest of the Squad 451 departed. During, that time, they discussed what they definitely saw: A Wedding Rehearsal between Peeta Mellark and Madge Undersee.

Madge and her family had been flown here from District 12 just before the bombings, and Peeta had been held captive by the Capitol for months. Snow was too afraid to harm either of them due to public opinion. So, he arranged their marriage. It both put trust two of the last survivors of District 12, and in the Capitol's favorite victor.

What made Gale and Katniss turn against their respective lovers? Peeta never knew that, but he did know what they did to him once the remaining three people arrived from District 13.

Peeta's body was lying on the floor amidst the worst of the carnage, his tuxedo covered in blood. Not far behind him lay the arrow-ridden corpse of Madge Undersee, who must have received special attention. However, President Snow's body, barely still held together, got the worst of it all. Effie was not far from him, her wig lying beside her in a pool of her blood. Portia sat slumped over behind the table of programs she was preparing. Peeta's stylists were scattered around him, their arms still fixed in positions of terror. Mayor Undersee and his wife also lay near the wall, huddled together like horrified children.

The coroners had arrived and were busy examining the bodies when Claudius Tempelsmith alerted his coworker. He waited outside for him.

Eventually, Cesar Flickerman's hovercraft did pull into the small street outside the chapel, parking next to an ambulance-craft. He stepped out of the back door and stared Claudius in the face. It was hard to tell, as both were wearing dark sunglasses, customary for mourning situations such as this one.

"Well," said Cesar, with no hint of his usual superficial smile. "Give me the gory details, Claudius."

Instantly, Claudius broke into tears and bowed his head forward, nearly launching his puffy blonde wig at Flickerman.

"Oh, it's an absolute _massacre_, Cesar!" he sobbed. "They killed the entire wedding party: President Snow, that former escort, all the stylists; they even shot the bride's parents!"

The two walked up the steps and inside. Cesar was unprepared for the bloody scene before him.

"Oh dear!" he exclaimed, slicking his lavender wig back.

"What did I tell you?" Claudius said, bringing his hands to his face in grief.

Cesar thought for a moment, and then began walking forward. Claudius was clinging desperately behind him, confused by his companion's silence.

"This is definitely the work of professionals," Cesar judged, nodding. "Four, maybe five."

"How can you tell?" Claudius gasped.

"Well a sure and stead hand did this," Cesar explained. "This isn't an amateur's work. You can tell by the cleanliness of the carnage. Whoever was here knew what they were doing, how they were going to do it, and why."

"So they had motive?" Claudius proposed. "Perhaps Squad 451! I'm sure Katniss Everdeen would have loved to murder the man who took her husband."

Cesar rolled his eyes. "First of all, there couldn't have any more than five people in here, and there's at least nine in Squad 451. Besides, most of them were spotted by Snow's security radius two blocks from here."

"Perhaps they were a decoy?"

"Oh, hush," Cesar instructed, truly annoyed now. "Second, Katniss didn't love Peeta anymore. After the Quell, she and Peeta both fell for their childhood loves: Gale Hawthorne and Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter. That's why they were here, getting married."

"Who will lead the country now? President Snow's death hasn't even been announced yet. The rebels will surely have our heads now!"

"I agree," Cesar said, stepping in front of Peeta's body. "But I think the real thing that will destroy us is the loss of this young boy right here."

Claudius nodded and pulled out his handkerchief, blowing his nose into it.

"Whoever did this must have a cold-blooded human being," Cesar continued, taking off his sunglasses and stroking Peeta's hair. "Look at this boy! He was a wonder speaker, an artist, and a supporter of all that was good for the people. Not to mention handsome."

Then, something miraculous happened. Peeta exhaled and spit right into Cesar's eye.

Claudius gasped and sobbed with joy, then was silent as Cesar wiped his eyed in disgust and reached a new verdict.

"Claudius," he began. "This son of a baker isn't dead."

Peeta lay in the hospital bed, breathing slowly and relying completely on the advanced Capitol machinery. He was in a coma, having survived an arrow through the chest. Katniss had missed his heart by a few mere inches. He was alive, but not for long.

Gale walked coolly through the hospital lobby. After the rebellion, President Paylor made sure that security measures were taken down a notch. The only reason Gale wore a disguise was to protect him from both swooning women who _wanted_ him and those who had lost family in the rebellion who wanted to _kill_ him.

He smiled as he walked, whistling "The Hanging Tree." In his mind, he was the hanging tree, and Peeta was about to be hanged.

As Peeta lay waiting, Gale pulled into a bathroom. He went swiftly inside and pulled off his trench coat &amp; pants, replacing them with a male nurse's uniform. He pulled out a syringe and filled it with a vile of liquefied nightlock berries. He put the syringe on a tray and walked calmly to Peeta's room, exactly where Katniss said he would be.

He took a moment to stare at the man he'd wanted to kill for years through the window. Finally, he had his chance. He strolled into the room, closed the door, and placed the tray on the nightstand.

"I might never have liked you," he confessed to Peeta's comatose body. "Quite in fact, I _despise_ you. But that shouldn't suggest that I don't respect you."

He took the shot and stuck it into the tube going from the IV to Peeta's arm. Then, he explained:

"This stuff should've killed you in your first games. Instead, Katniss used it to save you. Now, I will do what should have been done. I only wish our fathers could've been given such a peaceful death as this."

He was about to pull the plunger when his communicator buzzed. The old Mockingjay rebel communicator that he once used during the revolution now served as his regular means of communication with Katniss.

He groaned before assuming a seductive, macho tone of voice and answering the call.

"Hello, Katniss," he said softly.

"What's his condition?" she asked slowly.

"Comatose," Gale answered with a snicker

"Where is he?" she continued impatiently.

"I'm standing over him right now," he replied huskily.

"That's my man," Katniss said, pleased by her effect on him. She knew he was swooning right now.

So, she gave him the bad news: "Gale, you're going to abort the mission."

"What!" Katniss could barely hear him over the static he was creating with his yelling.

"We owe him more than that."

"Oh, you don't owe him a _damn_ thing!" Gale spat back.

"Will you keep your voice down?" Katniss calmed him.

"You don't owe him a damn thing!" Gale whispered.

"May I say one thing?" Katniss requested.

"Speak."

"You all beat the hell out of that man, but you didn't kill him. And I put an arrow through his heart, but it just kept beating. You saw that yourself with your handsome gray eyes."

Gale was starting to calm down now.

"We've done a lot of things to this man. And, if he ever wakes up, we'll do a hell of a lot more. But one thing we won't do is sneak into his room in the dead of night, like a filthy rat, and poison him. And the reason we won't do that thing is because that thing would lower us. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Hawthorne?"

"I guess so."

"Do you really have to guess?"

Gale sighed into the phone. "No. I don't really have to guess. I know."

"Come on home," Katniss suggested seductively.

"Affirmative," he answered in a frustrated yet slightly aroused way.

"I love you very much," said Katniss.

"I love you, too," he answered in a strained way. "Bye."

He threw the communicator down into his belt before walking over to Peeta and staring down at his face, which he found to be far too smug.

"Thought that was pretty funny, didn't you?" he sneered, though he knew that fair-haired boy couldn't possibly hear him. "A word of advice, Mellark: Don't you _ever_ wake up."

A white ceiling. White curtains. A white fluorescent light. That's what I see when I wake up.

Where am I? What's going on? What happened? I try to calm down and collect my thoughts. I try to remember what the last thing I experienced was…

Then it hits me: Katniss. An arrow. Squad 451 showing up at the wedding I was supposed to have. Katniss. She shot an arrow in my heart… How could she? I thought she might have loved me… No. She loves Gale. That's why she shot an arrow in my heart.

Then I snap back to reality. My hand travels to my heart. I lift my hospital gown up. Why am I wearing a hospital gown? I look around. I'm in a hospital. Lovely.

My hand travels up my abdomen to my bare chest. I feel the rough lining of a scar. I hastily lift my gown up further to look at the scar. Its diagonal shape is lined with several stich marks. The skin of the scar is brownish-purple, a stark contrast to the rosy white skin of the rest of my torso.

How could she do this to me? After all we meant to one another…

As I clutch my now sweaty blonde hair in my hands, I slowly lower them and study my palms. I study the wrinkles in my hands, just as Haymitch taught me.

"Four years," I whisper angrily, astonished by the sound of my own voice. I don't even have time to digest all of this information when I hear a door slide open down the hall along with two sets of footsteps.

Oh no. Katniss isn't done with me. She must have been waiting until I woke up to kill so that I experience the pain all over again. Without thinking, I quickly lie back down, pretending to lie back asleep and do exactly what I did in my first Games.

When the two people walk in, I'm surprised to hear that one of them is wearing particularly loud high-heels. Katniss would never wear that on her own accord. The heels stop near the left side of the foot of my bed. The other person, possibly wearing flats, stops on the right side. They both stop and stand completely still, breathing heavily. I can almost feel them staring at me. Who are they? What do they want? Finally, an effeminate male voice speaks.

"You remember our terms, correct?" he chirps. "You are doing this, aren't you?"

He receives a slightly aged female voice in response.

"Oh, yes," she says, with a desperate tone of lust in her voice. "A bit pricy, but that's what one should expect to pay for just twenty minutes with Panem's most eligible victor."

Then I realize. The days of prostitution for the victors of the Games continue. And I'm next. But why am I the most eligible?

By the sound of it, the man has already taken the money and busily begun counting it, not paying a second of attention to the woman's chirps. Finally, the currency counting stops.

"Alright," he says. "Here are the rules: No biting; no hitting; no doing anything that would any sort of mark. The nurse who takes care of him does a full-body washing, which I've had the pleasure of observing in the past, every two days. If she sees what you've done, we'll both be gone from here like_ that_." He snaps his fingers for effect.

"You mean _you'll_ be gone like that," she corrects defensively. "We already discussed that my identity is to be kept a secret. After Finnick revealed the secrets I told him in exchange for our sexual excursions to the whole of Panem, I simply _cannot _show my face around here again. After all, I do still have some old connections and could get you terminated at any time."

"You're right," the man says nervously for the first time. "Remember: no marks, no bruises. I'll be back in twenty minutes."

The man turns to leave, but stops at the door. "Oh! I almost forgot. Sometimes the Viagra doesn't work completely. If that happens, promptly insert this into him and it should last for another ten minutes." I heard something like a nail being put on the metal table beside my bed. "Bon appetite."

With that, he finally leaves, bolting the door behind him. I can hear the woman slowly unzipping her coat and letting it fall on the floor. As she giggles and breathes heavily, she lies down on top of me, rubbing her soft palms on my bare legs and squeezing my thighs. She grabs my hips and strokes my waist before pinching my nipples and resting her hands on my shoulders to gain leverage in order to straddle me.

After bending down to cup my face with her far-too-manicured hands and kiss me, she says "You are far more handsome in person. And I must say, your physique is much more pleasing to the eye than Finnick's ever was."

As she bends back down to bite my lips again, I let my eyes open and bite back.

At that, she lets out one penetrating squeal which cuts off awkwardly before she falls backwards onto the bed. I'm a tad confused, until I lift her towards me and put my ear to her chest. No sound. I've scared her to death.

As I push her back to inspect her, I finally notice her age, which she has obviously tried to cover up through cosmetic surgery and vast amounts of make-up. She is definitely in her 50's. She must have taken her wig off, as there is a hair net with a head of thin, short hair underneath. She is also wearing a tight leotard clearly fit for whatever gymnastic act she had planned for us.

For a moment, I'm surprised at myself for having killed someone, until I remember who I am and what I've been through. After all, I did mercilessly choke Brutus in my last Games.

I throw her down next to me on the bed and try to scoot off.

I fall flat on my face.

As I try to stand, I realize that I must have entropy. Four years, I remind myself. I slap my legs and try to move them, pulling on the fair hair there. But it's no use.

My eyes grow wide when I hear humming down the hallway. I recognize the voice and the sound of the shoes. It's the flamboyant man who orchestrated my prostitution. Katniss must have put him up to this…

Quickly, I grab the small metal thing on the table. I notice that it's pink and about eight inches long with a stopper on one end. The length is right, but the device is way too wide to go… there.

I drag myself to lean awkwardly against the wall next to the doorway. The man enters.

"How was he?" he asks enthusiastically. "I hope you've saved some for me-"

He stops himself once he sees that she is dead. Before he can call out for help, I stick the device through his Achilles heel. He falls backwards onto the floor without a word. I drag him over to the doorway. He keeps dozing off, clearly in shock from the shock of the injury.

I'm determined to get answers from him. "Where's Katniss?" I scream. He doesn't respond, so I slam the door on his skull.

"Where's Katniss?"

No response. Slam.

"I'd like it if you stopped," he says pathetically.

"Where's Katniss." He grunts at the next slam.

"Katniss Everdeen?" he chokes out. "She disappeared after the revolution. She went into hiding!"

"Lies!" I spit back, and slam him again.

Then something strange happens to me. I've heard of cases in which comatose patients recall being sexually abused, but I never actually believed them. But now, I do. I see a flashback of him standing over me, pulling objects from his pocket.

"I may not technically be your doctor, but I _am_ about to perform an exam. Now turn over, bread boy." He gave a wicked smile before flipping me over.

The flashback is over. I look angrily at him. By the look of fear in his eyes, it almost seems that he knows what I know now.

"I may not be a doctor," I say ironically. "But I do think your skull will break."

"No!" he pleads. "Wait!"

But it's too late. I slam the metal door on his temple and listen to the sound of his cranium snap. Immediately his leg begins shaking. He'll be dead soon. I begin removing his uniform to use as a disguise. I take out his keys and see the keychain labeling the keys to his hovercraft. In pink letters, it reads: _Penismobile_.

"_Penismobile_," I say aloud, and then turn to him again. "Fuck you."

I slam his head in the door one last time. Then I take his uniform and put it on.

**If you have any questions/comments, feel free to message me. Hope you enjoyed!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:** **The Origin of Alma**

When I arrive at his hovercraft, I pull open the door and grab two hanging support grips to pull myself up into the car. I barely have time to notice the bright magenta upholstery or to hear my hover-chair that I used to escape the hospital go drifting off into the parking area, hitting other hovercrafts in the process.

I am forced to use only my upper-body strength to pull myself into the craft, since my legs are currently useless. I let out seething grunts as my arms convulse, bearing the weight of my entire body with them. I motivate myself by thinking of all the other things my arms were strong enough to do: lift humongous sacks of flour, defeat Careers, keep Katniss safe from her nightmares...

No. That is in the past. And things are much different now. I finally bring myself to slide the rest of my body onto the seat in the back of the _Penismobile_. I breathe out an intense sigh of exhaustion as the last few beads of sweat drip down my face. As I take a few deep, open-mouthed breaths, I quickly come to my senses and lean forward to close the door behind me.

As I plop back down to wear I was, lying down on the entire backseat, I take in my surroundings: fuzzy lavender dice hanging from the rear view mirror, a fluffy white steering wheel, and a dashboard decoration depicting a mostly-naked Capitol man doing a provocative dance each time the car moves. Though my surroundings do haunt me, I have more pressing matters to tend to.

I reach out in front of me to grip my lifeless leg. Beneath the man's uniform, my leg hair, the skin, the fat, and the muscle, there is no life. I realize that gripping my leg will not help at all, so I sit back and think of an old medical trick that Prim had taught me. It sounded crazy at the time, but now that I know it is my only option, I suddenly feel faith in it. So, I stare straight at my bent toes with their uniformly cut and sterile nails and talk to them.

"Wiggle your big toe," I command myself.

Nothing happens; my toe stares back at me blankly. But I am not discouraged.

"Wiggle your big toe," I repeat. Nothing happens.

"Wiggle your big toe."

And as I lay in the back of the hovercraft trying to will my limbs out of entropy, I finally have time to see it. And what I see are the faces of the bastards who did this to me and the bitches who arranged it: members all of Squad 451. They lean over me, looking condescendingly down at me as I writhe in my own blood. And I know that I must find them and take my revenge.

But therein lies a dilemma. I've been unknown and forgotten by the world for four years, and I'm sure that they have been even more so.

That is, except for one. After all, when one performs the all-difficult task of becoming Queen of the Panem underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one?

Alma Coin was born into the still rebuilding underground society of District 13. It had been 20 years since the district was bombed by the Capitol, so the buildings, population, and overall demeanor of the place were still growing.

The quiet contemplative military brat was born to a mother who had been a puppet diplomat to the Capitol and a father who was heavily involved in the rebellion. Though her mother's allegiance was clearly with her district home and her family, she and Alma's father, Lt. Coin had never quite agreed on political matters. Her father was rough and unforgiving, wanting with all his heart to squash the Capitol and place the whole of Panem under the control of District 13. Her mother, however, was always pushing more peaceful solutions that involved coexistence with the Capitol. On many nights, this ended in a shouting match that sent her mother crying to their quarters and her father seething to the target range. Little Alma ate dinner alone many nights.

However, the insecurity in the Coin family's political opinions lay not solely within the disagreement between the parents; it was also a result of District 13's leadership. More specifically, the president: General Stone.

General Stone, stepbrother to Alma's father and estranged relative to President Snow, preferred the term "general" over "president" because he loved his own military background and its presence which intimidated his advisers, which included Lt. Coin. Stone was the more dominant of the two stepbrothers, despite being younger. In addition, he was cocky and headstrong, and deeply in love with Alma's mother.

Lt. Coin knew this; as did everyone. The humiliating rumors that darted through the cafeteria and halls of the district embarrassed Alma's father and amused Stone. Though he wasn't sure if his wife still loved him, he knew for certain that she did not love Stone.

However, this did not stop Stone. Being Lt. Coin's superior, he humiliated him in every way possible, and sprang his advances upon Mrs. Coin at every opportunity. But she was not his only goal; he wanted Lt. Coin dead.

This was due to the fact that even though he was already his superior, he secretly felt threatened by the lieutenant and his strong manner, which was real instead of superficial like Stone's. He wanted to remove his stepbrother and his wife from existence. After all, he didn't want the woman unless getting her was a challenge. There was only one dilemma: Alma.

At this point, Alma was only thirteen years old, but strong. Though Lt. Coin did restrict what her mother did outside their quarters, to Alma he gave everything. He took her to the shooting range every day and taught her how to fight as well. He gave her all his military secrets and taught her strategy. In addition, he prevented Stone from seeing the child once she became a toddler, for fear of his superficial leadership rubbing off on her. As such, Stone had never laid eyes on this now-teenaged girl who had been taught to distrust him and stay away from him.

But he knew she had been trained by the lieutenant and was therefore just as capable of overthrowing him as Lt. Coin. He decided that the whole family must be eliminated in order for his rule to be secure.

One terrible night, General Stone decided to act. He marched down the hallway to the Coin family quarters and overrode the security. Hearing the impending danger, Alma's parents hid her away in a secret compartment under their bed where Lt. Coin kept his weapons that were illegal in the district following the rebellion. However, the compartment was made from his own handiwork and wasn't entirely airtight; there were cracks in its ceiling that allowed Alma to see the bottom of the bed above her.

What she heard, she was glad she never saw. Her father fought hard against two of Stone's guards and beat them, using the skills he had acquired during the rebellion and taught to Alma. But these were no match for the deadly power of a high-tech knife wielded by Stone's right hand man. Alma heard her father fall to the floor next to her hiding spot, as well as his labored breathing, which came to an abrupt stop after one final stab from the otherworldly weapon.

General Stone slowly stood up from Lt. Coin's chair that he had been lounging in and walked slowly to the bed, cackling wildly. There, a fourth bodyguard was holding Alma's mother at gunpoint. Stone grabbed her by her hair and kissed her madly before she bit his lip and smacked him. This angered him so much that he struck her across the face and sent her falling backwards onto the bed, where she lay crying for her husband whom she never quite understood but always loved.

Stone gave a wicked smile before holding his hand out for the same weapon used to kill his stepbrother. He held it in his hands, poised to strike down on the woman. She didn't even look up before he put the weapon straight through her torso, through the bed, and partly through the crack of the compartment, giving Alma a scar directly along her hairline and killing her mother. Alma shrieked, and everyone in the room heard her, with the exception of General Stone, who was laughing maniacally.

Immediately one guard alerted him of the shriek and tore the bed off the wall, revealing the weapon stuck in a crack of a compartment which was now broken and empty. In his cockiness, he always assumed that all of the blood on top of the compartment had belonged to Mrs. Coin and that the shriek his guards heard had been hers as well.

What they didn't know was that Alma had escaped through a secret trap door inside the compartment to the depths of the district. She crawled bravely through the ducts, sobbing for her parents and feeling the wound on her hairline which kept it perfectly straight. Since that night, her hair was perfect. But she didn't care about that; she was too busy swearing revenge on her step-uncle.

She used her sneaky demeanor and skills taught to her by her father to make her way to the District 13 military training academy, disguising her identity. She was not worried, however, because Stone's ever-growing cockiness distracted him from focusing too much attention on finding her anyway.

Alma rose to the top of her class, using her fierce fighting abilities fueled by her vengeance. She became a legend, the mysterious girl whose origin no one knew. A man by the name of Darien eventually grew so intrigued by her that he pursued her. The two of them began seeing each other and eventually she told him of her story. He had lost both of his parents to the rebellion, and the two were united in their loneliness.

When they graduated from the academy, she was able to come out of hiding with one goal: to take her revenge on General Stone. He had maintained his rule well over the years, and she was prepared to end it. She planned an attack on his quarters before informing Darien and a few other graduates. This was to be both a coup and a massacre. They would be the rulers now.

Alma knew that only one thing could trick Stone into becoming vulnerable enough to kill him: to seduce him. Lucky for her, she inherited her mother's looks which he loved but did not know Alma possessed since he had never laid eyes on the girl. She infiltrated his bedroom without disturbing the guards and acted as if she were one of his whores. She undressed and straddled him, saying sensual things as she watched his arrogance unfold. When he was at his most vulnerable, she stuck an old rebel knife of her father's through his heart. As he squealed in pain, she calmly recited her vengeful monologue:

"Stone, look at me."

He did not, but she continued.

"Look at my eyes."

He flailed his arms wildly.

"Look at my mouth."

He broke his own teeth with the strain.

"Do I look familiar? Do I look like someone... you murdered?"

As she screamed these last words, she released the weapon from him and let his blood splatter all over his quarters. He yelled his final yell, which sent his guards flying to his room. Upon seeing a bloody Alma straddling their dead boss, they began firing madly at her until their guns were empty. When the smoke cleared, she was nowhere to be found. What they didn't know was that she was under his bed. She used her own gun to shoot at their legs until they fell down and she could shoot their heads.

On the cue of the gunshots, Darien and the others flooded the presidential quarters and killed every guard. It was official: Alma Coin was now president of District 13.

After taking office, she immediately made a few changes to the government, ridding it of Stone's old arrogant policies. She crowned her fellow coup officers with jobs as her advisers and made Darien her lead military adviser. They soon married, and he was not hurt at all when she kept her last name. The two had a beautiful strong daughter with her grandmother's looks and her grandfather's intellect, much like Alma. Years passed and the girl grew up.

However, Alma was only unaware of one thing: when she killed Stone, he was already dying from a poison sent to him from President Snow. When his blood splattered over his quarters, the virus was spread to all of his belongings. The resourceful and practical people of District 13 thought it only sensible to wash and recycle his belongings. Over time, the indestructible virus made its way through the district. When their daughter graduated from the same academy as her parents, the deadly disease struck the district at full force. It killed Darien and their daughter and left Alma alone once again. But in her weakest moment she did not falter. She handled the disease well and dealt with the people in their time of need. Only after it was eradicated did she discover its origin.

After the disease cleared, District 12 was bombed. Alma knew that it was the duty of her government to help them out and rescue their survivors, knowing that her own district had had the same problem before and now needed a larger population. In addition, she loved the idea of the rebellion which, she knew, would ultimately end in Snow's death. She took in the people of the District 12, including the rebel team of the Mockingjay. This included Katniss Everdeen.

Once she learned that the team was shooting promos for the rebel force, she decided that this would be the perfect time to become a larger part of the rebellion and go after President Snow personally. She was now becoming power-hungry, and she knew it.

Not long after setting out for the Capitol's outskirts, the rebel team, Squad 451, discovered Snow and a small group of people planning the false wedding between two Capitol puppets. She immediately demanded entrance to their squad and came down to help them get the job done. That day, she assisted in the killing of nine people at a deserted wedding chapel in the evacuated part of the Capitol. But she made one crucial mistake: she should have killed ten. But before revenge would be mine, first things first.

"Wiggle your big toe."

This time, it moves, and a huge weight leaves my shoulders. I smile and continue the therapy until, hours later, my legs are moving, albeit stiffly. I step out of the car and into the driver's seat, where I put it into driving mode and finally make my way out of this wretched hospital.


	4. Chapter 4

**am so sorry, I realize that it had been six months since I last updated and almost a year since I began the story but I thank any of you who are still loyal to the story! Please leave a comment! I promise to update more often! Thank you!**

**Chapter 4: The Man from District Three**

"One ticket to District Three."

That's what I tell the District Nine woman who sells the tickets. I'm finally leaving the Capitol, disguised of course. My hair is swept back behind my forehead with a special kind of gel that dyes my hair green only until I wash it next. I'm wearing a pair of large sunglasses and a bit of pink dust on my face that I found in the hovercraft I stole. I would take the hovercraft to District Three, but it's just too far.

My disguise works; no one tries to approach me. I assume that no hospital personnel have reported my absence yet. So, I board the train as it speeds off to the District of technology.

I walk slowly down the street, swinging a backpack over my shoulder and whistling. I need to keep up a carefree demeanor if I'm going to fool this guy.

I keep walking until I find it: a small, rundown repair shop sitting between two newer ones. Since the rebellion, many buildings here have undergone major renovations now that their owners can actually afford it. I stop outside the shop to check my reflection in the window. I am wearing sunglasses with my naturally blonde hair now free of gel and slicked back over my head. I am wearing a tight white t-shirt with the seal of District Four on its front, along with a pair of cargo shorts and sandals, the custom wear of the district. I put on an arrogant, cool attitude and step into the shop, beaming.

As the beeping sound that signals a customer goes off and the flimsy door closes, I stand in the middle of the small shop and look at the man behind the counter: exactly the man I wanted to see.

The place is in bad shape. The man from District Three is sitting behind a semi-circular counter dotted with crudely placed glass boxes containing different electronic devices. There is a desk on the wall behind it, in front of which the man is sitting as he reads from an electronic newspaper tablet. On the wall above the desk hangs a rack of different tools used to fix electronics, none of which I can recognize. But aside from these tiny signs of organization, the place is in disrepair, with boxes strewn about and wallpaper peeling off in shreds. Part of me wonders how he ended up like this.

As I stand looking at him, I make my presence known. "Hey!" I shout.

"Salutations," says the man as he puts down the news-tablet. He doesn't seem entirely interested in my presence, until he looks up and sees my ridiculousness. He instantly falls for my trick and takes me for a prestigious District Four socialite. Thinking that a dumb surfer boy like that would not understand his greeting, he tries again.

"Afternoon," he says in a forcibly informal tone. I have to stifle a laugh at how awkward his intelligent tongue is when it comes to speaking colloquially. After all, he is a man known for his technical vocabulary. But as of now, he doesn't know that I know that.

He is wearing a simple loose brown shirt with worn khakis, and the same glasses he always wore. His dark skin contrasts with the bronze-colored metal of his glasses, which cover a pair of imploring brown eyes.

"It appears as if you're of the marine district." He says quickly. "Am I correct in saying that?"

"Almost," I say, tossing my hair back and stretching my arms before pointing to my shirt with both thumbs and in overly-proud gesture. "District Four!"

He nods slowly, slightly appalled at my apparent stupidity. I've got him right where I want him.

"Oh, very good," he says smiling. "Welcome to District Three."

"Exemplary," I say as I shift my backpack to the other shoulder and walk towards the bar set up around him. I misuse the term to lead him on even further.

"Ah," he says with an interested open mouth. "You've been picking up some of our eloquent District Three colloquialisms, haven't you?"

"Yeah," I say with an arrogant shrug of my shoulders. "I just learned a few this morning." I step closer to him. "Could I get a seat at the bar, man?" I ask.

"Oh, of course!" he replies, instantly gesturing with open, friendly arms to a stool right in front of the bar. "I apologize for not offering a seat more promptly. As you can see, I'm afraid that I've been _far_ too invested in my tinkering with the parts behind the bar."

"It's cool, man, it's cool." I say in the lazy District Four way, giving him a pretentious smile as we both chuckle warmly.

He continues to mess with whatever he has behind the bar, using a variety of tools. His focus is so intense that even I seem to forget that I'm here. He looks up at me rapidly a few times before stopping altogether to slap himself on the side of the head. "Oh_ dear,_" he says. "You've been here for almost a minute now and I've done absolutely nothing to assist you as a proprietor."

"Hey, no worries, man," I reply coolly. "Don't stress yourself. I'm just cooling it here for a minute before I start looking at all your cool gadgets."

He seems almost relieved, as he goes back to his work. But he surprises me when he chuckles loudly and warmly, shaking his head as he does so. Before I have the chance to ask why, he explains, "It's comical to me, you using the word 'gadgets.' Have you taken the time to learn any of our other native technical terms?"

"Oh, let me think," I say in an exaggerated pondering tone, staring at the ceiling in false concentration. I act as if I'm searching my entire brain until finally I find a word. "'Circuit-board!'"

"Oh!" he says, smiling at me like a proud parent and clapping his hands.

"Oh! And what about 'electromagnetic'?" I say excitedly, making sure to use my real voice in order to pronounce it correctly this time.

"Yes, yes!"

I make another exaggerated search for this next one: "Technocological?" I say, almost like a question.

"Ah," he says, a tad excited to be able to correct me. He puts his hand up with his fingers fixed in an almost-pointing gesture, shaking it with each syllable. "Tech-no-lo-gic-al," he sounds out slowly.

"Tech-no-lo-gic-al?" I repeat slowly.

"Ah," he says satisfied. "Repaired. You say those big words very well."

"Oh come on, man," I say smiling, leaning my head back. "Now you're just making fun of me."

"No, of course not!" he counters, putting a hand over his heart. "My response may have sounded slightly condescending, but I am not kidding at all about the fact that your pronunciation of those words is...exemplary!"

"Well thanks man," I say laughing.

Once again, there is an awkward silence, followed by a guilty look from him. But this time, he actually does something.

"I'm terribly sorry," he says. "I'm supposed to offer you a drink while you browse my technological merchandise. We haven't had a customer in a while, as you can see." He gestures to the messy state of the place.

If only he knew that I couldn't care less.

Then he sits up and clap his hands. "Enobaria! We have a customer! Grind the coffee beans!"

Enobaria? There's no possible way. Why on Earth would he ever let her come work here? Last time they had contact, he was busy coming up with a way to kill her.

"I'm doing my workouts!" she shouts back to him, sounding out of breath.

The man from District Three shakes his head. "Still stuck in the games…" he says to the countertop, then shouts, "Enobaria, please just do what I asked of you. We have an agreement."

There is another silence before Enobaria begrudgingly trudges out from a door to his right, her tan skin glistening with sweat. She looks me up and down, baring her teeth in a way that is probably not intentionally threatening, but rather a way in which she has just become accustomed to greeting people. The lack of expression on her face confirms that she doesn't recognize me either. Upon her entering, he looks back down at the gadget he is tinkering with, satisfied at her assent.

"What do you want?" she asks me rudely.

I pretend to be intimidated. "Uh...can I just get a cup of hot chocolate?"

Instantly, he looks up at me in affectionate surprise. "Hot chocolate? Very good! Would you mind grinding the cocoa beans, Enobaria?"

She looks the tiniest bit taken aback at my request. "Hot chocolate? It's summertime. And aren't you like twenty-one? You look like twenty-one."

He shoots her a disapproving look. "Enobaria, let's not judge the customer on his dietary habits. Everyone likes a nice hot chocolate every once in a while, no matter what their age." He smiles at me good naturedly and returns to his work. But Enobaria is far from pleased by this whole situation. And I don't think she's angry about the hot chocolate.

"I'm getting _very_ tired of the orders, Volts," she spits. "Our deal was that you would let me live here with you out of the public eye, and in return I would help your crippled ass run this shit business. Not anywhere in our agreement did either of us mention that you would tell me how to run my life and deal with people!"

"Enobaria!" his voice raises in a very out-of-character fashion. "Please refrain from using foul language in the presence of a customer!"

"Put a power cord in it!" she retorts, shifting to my right side and practically talking to him over my shoulder. "For three years now, you've been urging me to 'settle down,' 'put away the past,' and 'be courteous to our customers.' If we were still in the games, I would have ripped your throat out in your sleep by now!"

"Oh, you would?" he asks sardonically. Then he pulls out the contraption he's been working on and points it at Enobaria. Instantly she receives a short shock that startles her and makes her jump back. "Then I would be sure to sleep with an auto-electrocution device so that we would both go down. And then you would be forced to 'settle down' and 'put away the past' in the afterlife. Do you understand, piranha-mouth?"

"I'm not a piranha-mouth; I sharpen my teeth. Do you understand?" she asks me sarcastically before another jolt from the man from District Three sends her back to the kitchen, presumably to make a very awful cup of hot chocolate. But I did not come here for refreshments.

"I am dreadfully sorry about all of that," he says to me. "I pray that you were not offended by any of what was said."

"It's cool, man. It's cool," I respond good-naturedly and gesture to his mild electrocution device. "At least we know that thing works now."

He looks down at it and laughs heartily. "Yes!" he says between chuckles. "I believe we do!"

We share a laugh that gradually dies down before he begins arranging his technology.

"So," he implores. "What brings you to my district? I'm confident that you did not come to look at my unimpressive collection of inventions.

I wave my hand and shake my head to both dismiss his self-depreciating joke and confirm his thoughts.

"No," I say smiling, and then grow serious. "I came to see a man."

He doesn't notice my change in tone.

"Oh," he says, not looking up from his work. "You have a friend in District Three?"

"More than a friend," I answer. "An ally, I'd say."

"Oh, an ally!" he replies. "Who is he, may I ask?"

"Beetee Latier," I reply sternly and quietly, looking directly at him without wavering.

As the happy mood breaks, so does whatever contraption he has just dropped on the floor, which produces the only sound heard in the room. His eyes wide, he slowly looks up at me with a look of surprise and hostility on his face. He studies my face a bit, before his own softens and he nods his head.

"Peeta Mellark," he says. "What do you want with Beetee Latier?"

"I need District Three technology," I reply ominously.

"Why do you need District Three technology?"

"I have mutts to kill."

"They must be some pretty big mutts, if you need Beetee Latier's technology."

I lean in close and pull my sunglasses down over my nose so that we can finally see eye-to-eye.

"Huge."

OoO

Upon ascending the top of the ramp, I am hit with quite a musty smell. Though it could never compare to the coal mines I grew up seeing or the pig sty where I tossed the burnt bread behind our bakery, it is still pretty musty. This is probably owed to Beetee's failure to open the door to this attic room in all the time he has been here since the end of the rebellion.

However, my smell disappears along with all three of my other senses, excluding sight, as I take in what I am looking at. I am in instant awe as I behold the rows upon rows of high-tech weapons hung on the long wall before me. Bows and crossbows that hum with life as I walk in front of them, gun-like contraptions that buzz with electricity, and machines capable of firing a multitude of different bullets dangle in my vision. Beetee is truly a master of weapon design and a skilled builder as well. I approach a large knife that literally begs me to pick it up. Just before I touch it, I snap out of my funk and look back to Beetee, who watches me, amused, from his position halfway up the ramp.

"May I?" I ask timidly.

"Please," he answers warmly.

Instantly I look down at the weapon. Slowly, with two hands held parallel to one another, I lift the knife from its bar on the wall and hold it up to my face, almost inhaling its greatness as I back up and turn to face Beetee. With a menacing smile, I swiftly spin it to hover horizontally before my face and remove the sheath just enough to see my reflection. I have long since removed my sunglasses, and the knife is so clean that I can see the blueness of my eyes in its metal.

I rapidly remove the entire knife from its sheath and stand threateningly with the knife held at my side, inviting Beetee to attack.

So Beetee does the closest thing to attacking as he is capable of. "Funny," he begins, pulling something out of his pocket. "You like knives, I like fire."

Before he even finishes the sentence, he hurls a lump of coal at me. Without blinking, I slice the coal into two perfect halves. Upon contact with the coal, the knife senses them and ignites itself, setting the two halves aflame as they land on either side of me.

He nods and smiles, impressed with my still-existent skills. He wheels himself around the room, admiring his weapons for the first time in a long while, and speaking to me kindly. "I wanted to show you these. What I have here is my life's work. From my days as a street rat tinkering with things to my days as Panem's inventive Victor to my days as District Thirteen's technological expert, I have kept track of all of my inventions, both good and bad. However, someone as wise beyond his years as you are, Mellark, must know that I no longer make instruments of death. Too many innocent children have died at the hands of my inventions. What I have here I only keep for their personal value." He approaches me, retrieves the knife, places it back in its sheath, smiles, and turns to hang it back where it belongs.

"Then give me one of these," I say back as he hangs the knife.

"These are _not_ for sale," he says sternly.

I laugh. "I didn't say 'sell me.' I said 'give me.'"

He laughs back, harder, and wheels around. "With all due respect, my boy, we may owe each other a few things, but why on Earth should I help you kill whoever it is you're planning to kill?"

"Because," I say slowly. "My mutt is a former ally of yours." I lower my head to glare at him from beneath my brow. "And considering the ally, I'd say you have a rather large obligation."

For the first time I can remember, I see Beetee truly and utterly surprised. He crosses before me without a glance and goes straight to a foggy window overlooking the newly-paved street. He slowly retrieves one hand from his lap and hesitates before carefully etching the name of my target into the condensation.

K-A-T-N-I-S-S.

He lets his finger fall limp on the final "S," looking at the name as if he hadn't written it himself seconds before. He turns toward the ramp and begins to speak to me with no emotion in his voice.

"You can sleep here. It will take me a month to make you the knife." He turns to me before descending the ramp. "I suggest you spend that time practicing."

With him gone, I walk to the window and glare at the letters there, before using my forearm to rub the entire name off of the glass. When one corner of a letter stays, I use my fingertip to take care of that as well. Soon this girl will be as gone as these letters.

***ONE MONTH LATER***

Beetee sits before me, his District Thirteen clothing clean and pressed for what I can only guess is a very symbolic ceremony for him. His face looks grim as he looks down at his lap and then at the two metal bowls each filled with burning coals at his sides. Enobaria kneels formally behind him, clad in her favorite battle suit. But she is not proud, as her expression much reflects Beetee's. In fact, she looks at him sympathetically. Evidently, her only weak spot is to rituals involving weapons. Not surprising.

I kneel before Beetee, in a simple gray uniform that he loaned me for this exact occasion. It is a bit odd, but I assume that there is more to it and I am not going to argue with the man who is giving me a free knife.

Calmly, with eyes looking toward the ceiling, he retrieves a huge, beautiful knife from under his chair. The handle and sheath are covered in yellow, probably symbolic. It hums just like most of his other weapons, but the humming grows louder when it sees me, so it must be made for me especially.

As he begins to remove the sheath, Enobaria instinctively rushes to hold the sheath as he pulls the knife out and examines it, holding it horizontally and vertically before himself. It is impossibly shiny and sharp, with flame designs licking it. He rubs the designs softly, and the blade immediately bursts into flames. Enobaria and I jump a little bit at this, but Beetee just stares stoically into the fire before sighing and speaking.

"I have just finished doing something that I swore on the memory of my deceased district partner and inseparable friend Wiress that I would never do again. I have created 'something that kills people.'"

Enobaria looks at him with what almost looks like genuine interest as he closes his eyes to fight the emotion.

"I have done this because, Peeta, I am sympathetic to your aim. I can tell you with no ego that this is my finest invention." He takes his eyes off of the knife and its flames go out. He turns it sideways, signaling Enobaria to return and help him sheath the weapon.

"If you should encounter Wiress on your journey, her spirit with be cut far worse than her throat was." He carefully sheaths the rest of the knife before holding it in his hands and admiring it for a moment. Then, he leans forward and offers it to me.

"Fair-haired warrior," he says. "Go."

I slowly accept the weapon. I look down at it as my fingers coil around it, and all I can see are the faces of the ones who will soon be at the mercy of it.

"Exemplary," I reply.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Showdown at the House of Blue Roses: Part 1**

It was one year after the massacre at the wedding chapel in the Capitol that Alma Coin, President of Panem, resigned from her position after taking the title from Snow. She took both her new presidential cabinet and personal army of peacekeepers with her, however, and assumed power of the Panem Underworld, an underground network of war criminals who aspire to continue ruling their bands of loyal followers outside of the spotlight. After resigning, Coin had ambitions to rise to the top of the chain, and this past year, she succeeded. In the Shakespearean-in-magnitude power struggle between her and the other underground bosses from each district, it was Coin's District 13 army, the Crazy 451, who proved the victor. And this year, Coin has accepted the position as the Queen of the Panem Underworld. In fact, right now she is meeting with the other district bosses, sitting at the head of the table, not a hair out of place as she graciously accepts their congratulations.

The old man to the right of Coin who's dressed like he's attending another Capitol ball is Coin's best friend, second lieutenant, and propaganda specialist, the former Head Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee; another former ally of Katniss.

The girl in her late twenties with the short spiked hair dressed in comfortable leather behind Coin is her personal bodyguard, Johanna Mason. She may have been tortured beyond repair by Snow's regime, brainwashed into thinking that all her greatest friends are now her enemies, but for what she lacks in mental stability, she makes up for in ferocity.

In fact, at a pub in her home of District 7 recently, she was approached by a particularly surly lumberjack who sought to impress her.

"Do you like chainsaws?" he had asked arrogantly, trying to get her attention with the recently allowed gadgetry.

She took a long swig from the liquor bottle she had been holding and put it down hard on the maplewood bar. Without looking at him, she replied, "Chainsaws...takes all the fun out of hacking a tree to its death."

But he did not feel threatened by her apparent insanity. So, she finally decided to spin herself towards him on her bar stool.

"Do you wish to screw me?" she asked crudely.

He only laughed in response. This made her angry.

"Don't laugh!" she scolded. "Do you wish to screw me, yes or no?"

After some hesitation, he responded meekly, "Yeah."

Immediately, she stabbed him in the abdomen with her machete, laughing as the blood spread out over his red plaid shirt.

"How about now, big boy?" she whispered smiling. "Do you still wish to penetrate me? Or is it I, who has penetrated you?" On the last word, she ripped the machete out and let his entrails spill onto her boots.

See what I mean by ferocity?

The bald guy standing next to Johanna is General Boggs, head general of Coin's personal army, the Crazy 451.

Now I suppose you're wondering: how could the former president of not only District 13, but the whole of Panem as well become the boss of all bosses in the Panem Underworld? I'll tell you. The subject of Coin's mainstream political affiliations came up before the crime council only once: the night Coin assumed power, during the meeting I've been describing to you.

The man sitting on the end of the table farthest from Coin is Boss Romulus Thread of District 12. And what Boss Thread thinks is...that he apparently really hates the plate in front of him, as he just smashed it with his palm. No, that can't be what he's thinking…

All of the cheering and celebrating and pouring of more beverages that had been going on before the smashing stop as every head turns to look at Boss Thread, who is now cleaning his hand with a napkin.

"Thread!" shouts Boss Lyme, boss of District 2. "What is the meaning of this outburst? This is supposed to be a celebration!"

"And what are we celebrating, huh?" he says calmly back. "The perversion of our illustrious council?"

"Thread!" Lyme shouts again. "I will not tolerate this! You're disrespecting our sister! Apologize!"

Coin claps her hands to silence everyone. She speaks soothingly. "Boss Thread, of what perversion do you speak?"

He puts down his napkin and begins to speak quietly again to everyone at the table aside from Coin. "I, along with you, Lyme and Paylor, started this council because we wanted for our way of life to continue. We wanted to honor our fallen comrades by carrying on our military rule away from the new democracy set up in Panem. And while you all laugh like mutts, they all weep in their graves over the perversion committed here!"

This provokes another outburst from everyone, over which Paylor's voice overpowers.

"Outrageous!" Paylor spits. "Thread, it is you who insults this council, bastard!" She throws her napkin at him.

Thread finally steps from behind his shroud of mystery and throws the napkin back. "Bitch!" He shouts at her.

Once again, Coin is forced to cut in. "Ladies and gentlemen!" she says calmly. "Boss Thread obviously has something on his mind. Therefore, all him to express it."

Thread takes advantage of the ensuing silence. "I speak, of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children...by making a former president and rebel bureaucrat its leader!"

He finally looks at her when he says this, and the only sound that can be heard is Coin's boots as she jumps onto the table, walks up to Thread's placemat, and uses her super-heated knife to neatly slice Thread's head off of his body.

All of the District bosses are immediately horrified, screaming and falling from their seats like scared children as his head lands on the table before Lyme and his blood spurts from his body like a sprinkler. Coin, however, retains her posture, watching the blood's flow gradually slow as Johanna and Plutarch smile in approval.

When the squirting does stop, Coin stands slowly and addresses the bosses, who have finally stopped screaming. She is very well composed, and despite the dots of blood on her face, her hair remains perfect as usual. "Before we dismiss, I need you all to understand something." She turns the knife's heating mechanism off and whips it back into the holster, splattering burnt blood on the District 11 boss' face in the process.

She stands up straight once again, eyeing each boss before smiling warmly and placing a hand over her heart.

"As your leader, I encourage you from time to time, but always in a respectful manner, to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you, and I promise you right here and now, that no subject will ever be taboo...except, of course, for the subject that was just under discussion. The price you pay for bringing up my former political affiliations with either the District 13 or Panem governments is...I collect your fucking head-just like this fucker here."

She lifts up Thread's severed head for effect, and her face changes drastically from calming to homicidal.

"Now, if any of you sons of bitches have anything else to say, now's the fucking time!"

No one dares to speak.

"I didn't think so," she says without looking at a single boss. Then she drops the head and resumes her former tone, smiling.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this meeting is adjourned."

"One ticket to the Capitol" is all I have to say before I am whisked away to the evil land where I am to cross off the first person on my list.

I sit on the train, custom-made knife from Beetee in hand, staring out the window and plotting my revenge as the stewards and stewardesses, no longer all Avoxes I notice, hand out coffee and tea to the other passengers. I ignore them in a very out-of-character fashion for me, too absorbed in my own thoughts.

Coin, however, is now apparently too good for public transportation. She travels in a private hovercraft driven by Johanna and flanked by five members of the Crazy 451 all on hoverbikes. They arrange themselves in and out of several pentagonal formations as Johanna taps on the steering wheel and Coin stares smugly, straight out of the windshield from the backseat. They are just driving into the bright outskirts of the Capitol as my train pulls into the neon city's busiest station.

I walk proudly through the station, clad in tight leather that covers up my full outfit. I stare straight ahead as I trek to the vehicle rental facility, ignoring the giggles of a few girls behind me.

After putting on my helmet and before mounting my motorbike, I shed the leather cover. I don't know why I bother covering my face, considering I've gotten so much older in the past four years that no one can recognize me, nor would they expect me to still be alive. What I wear now is the jacket and pants from my first Games, which are to serve the purpose of being my uniform for tonight's impromptu showdown.

I speed down the busy and complicated Capitol roadways, strangely bonded to one particular black hovercraft in front of me with a mockingjay on the license plate. It's not the mockingjay that peaks my curiosity, as many Capitol citizens probably have them, but something else intrigues me about the hovercraft. My desire to chase the vehicle heightens when it suddenly speeds up, as if trying to evade me.

But it isn't. In fact, the man behind the wheel hasn't even noticed me, as I can tell when I pull up next to him at a stop-light. There he is, chatting into his communicator with a huge grin on his face: Plutarch Heavensbee. Instantly, that communicator sends me into a flashback.

There I am, being beaten to a bloody pulp by my once-loyal friends, lying on the ground panting, when I look up and see Plutarch standing off to the side of the mess, looking on in encouragement. His phone rings, playing Rue's four-note Mockingjay tune, and he answers it as if he isn't witnessing a mass homicide. He chats and laughs with whomever is calling him, with absolutely no empathy for me at all.

He continues to talk as I stare at him through my helmet. I finally decide that I can't stand being next to him anymore and run right through the stop-light to the House of Blue Roses.

Coin walks confidently down the hallway, dressed in her traditional District 13 garb as a symbol of where she comes from. On her left is Plutarch, wearing a flamboyant tuxedo. On her right is Johanna, looking horrifying in her leather pants and tank top, carrying a leather bag zipped up at the top. Behind the three of them are Jackson, Leeg 1, Leeg 2, Mitchell, and Homes, all dressed in Peacekeeper uniforms, as all members of the Crazy 451 do.

They stride confidently down the hallway to the House of Blue Roses, expressions of smug pride on both Coin and Plutarch's faces. And though Johanna's face looks murderous, the other five bodyguards laugh and push each other around as they swing their knives.

Once Coin's combat boots touch the plush carpet, Fulvia and Tigris immediately usher them inside the main room of the club. Though Coin, Plutarch and Johanna look unimpressed by the place, the five soldiers behind them silently take in the grandiose room. After Plutarch joined Coin in her efforts to gain notoriety in the Panem Underworld, Fulvia had no choice but to use her lofty connections and start a business in the Capitol. Just as Tigris' clothing shop was about to finally go bankrupt, Fulvia bought the place and two surrounding properties, converting the combined area into the House of Blue Roses, a high-end club whose name is meant to be a symbol that the days of Snow's white roses which represent so much fear are over.

Fulvia and Tigris guide the party into the room, with adulating coaxing and forced enthusiasm, respectively. The establishment is far from humble, with smells of a gourmet kitchen wafting over expensive tiles into the main room which consists of an immense glass dance floor surrounded by smaller rooms where the clientele dine. Before the dance floor is a stage where the band plays. Tonight, Fulvia specially requested the presence of the worst thing to happen to Panem since the Games: the band "The Stylists," consisting of Octavia on drums, Flavius on lead vocals and guitar, and Venia on bass. The three of them gained much fame after primping up the Girl On Fire and Mockingjay through two Games and a rebellion. And now instead of blinding the people with make-up, they bombard them with awful music that the drunk mass dancing below them seems to enjoy.

The group generally ignores both the band and the cooing of Fulvia as it is lead up the stairs and into a private room behind sliding doors that overlooks a balcony directly over the stage. They are led through the door and Fulvia shuts it behind them before immediately commencing to yell at Tigris the instructions for waiting on this group. They run back down the stairs just as the band is finishing their last song, and just as I get up from my seat at the bar.

I leave my hoverbike helmet at the bar and stare at the doors of the room, descending the stairs to the right of the stage as "The Stylists" begin their next number-a very repetitive song featuring high-pitched vocals from Flavius. I hardly notice, however, and instead position myself right outside of the thin, papery sliding doors so that I can put my ear against the wall and listen to whatever is going on behind those doors.

What I hear doesn't sound like Coin's kind of party at all. What I hear is Leeg 1 telling a very dirty story about when a man whom she'd slept with threw her onto a table and pulled his own pants down to reveal something that was much smaller than she thought it would be.

When she delivers the punch line of the story, everyone bursts out laughing, including Coin who chuckles a little bit and then stops abruptly. Just then, a dart goes whizzing through the wall right past my nose and lands on the opposite wall. She must have sensed my presence.

"Johanna," is all I hear in the ensuing silence of the room, as Coin commands her personal bodyguard to go outside and look for me, the possible intruder.

I'm clinging to the boards in the ceiling before I can hear Johanna pull the axe out of its leather sheath. She jumps out of the door and looks around slowly and vigilantly for signs of someone. She sees only a wall to her left and only two Avox girls coming out of a room to serve customers to her right. She looks out over the balcony at the dancing Capitol clientele and the band, whose song is getting progressively more annoying.

In fact, every note seems to get louder and more high-pitched as I cling to the ceiling, my muscles which have hauled hundreds of bags of flour and evaded several Careers beginning to ache. I almost lose my footing, which she hears, but does not look up to see. I struggle to maintain my hiding spot as she cautiously goes over to the corner to retrieve her mistress' dart. My entire body is shaking as she takes one more slow survey of the room before turning around and going back to the room where the jokes have started once again.

As I slowly float down off of the ceiling, I decide that the sneaking-up-on-her plan is not a good approach when Johanna Mason and five highly-trained District 13 sharpshooters are on her side and she has the hearing of a hawk.

As "The Stylists" started yet another song, this one with Octavia on vocals, I descend the stairs to the rhythm of the beat and head ominously towards the bathroom. I ignore a flirting couple, pushing down all of the romantic memories I have and focusing on the task at hand. I stride past the kitchen and into the bathroom which shares the theme of the rest of the place: extravagant. I take one look behind me to make sure none of Coin's party have followed me, and head into a stall.

Behind the safety of the painted walls, I unzip my jacket and pull down my pants to reveal my skin-tight Quarter Quell uniform. It's a little snug in a few places, but still just as capable of providing me with a battle suit.

As I continue to change, a man who has just finished washing his hands exits the bathroom, and is slightly alarmed by Fulvia's high-pitched scolding coming up behind him from the kitchen. She is giving Tigris, who is struggling with a six-pack of alcoholic beverages that Fulvia refused to help her carry, a run-down on how to manage the elite party upstairs.

"You must say 'yes, yes, yes' to _any_ selfish demands they make!" she chirps, sounding all-too-much like our dear late Effie.

"They demand ridiculous things," Tigris counters in her feline voice, struggling to keep her chin above the heavy bottles.

"Shut up!" snaps Fulvia. "Do you _know_ what would happen to you if they heard you?"

"What's going to happen?" Tigris asks doubtfully.

"Did you hear about what happened to the District 12 Boss?"

"No."

"You're going to get your head chopped off!"

"Oh, I don't want that!" Tigris worries as they ascend the left stairs to deliver the beverages. They are just entering the room when Plutarch exits, proudly descending the stairs in long, cocky strides. He looks straight ahead as the ascending Avoxes bow to him, rounding the corner to walk right in front of the stage as Venia and Flavius dance away the last thirty seconds of their song. Plutarch walks calmly to the beat just as I did, passing the enamored couple and entering the bathroom to check his tuxedo in the mirror. The song ends just as I finish zipping up my Quarter Quell uniform.

I look up when I hear it. Rue's Mockingjay tune is playing, and there's only one man I know who is self-obsessed enough to still have that as his ringtone. After all, I guess he was the first to popularize the tune, and now I guess he is the last to still care about it as well.

I timidly open the stall door and there he is. He stands in front of the mirror, giving someone a frustrated talk.

"Listen," he says. "She's in a meeting right now, but if you give me a call-back number, we can get right back to you."

His voices rises as the person on the other line is apparently growing more difficult, but I don't care. All I can do is stare at his twisted reflection and feel myself convulse in anger as I stare at the man who organized my death. Tonight, I will have my first taste of revenge. So, as he hangs up the call and looks down, I take out Beetee's knife and approach him from behind.

"Don't make a sound. We're going for a walk."


	6. Chapter 6

_ Hey everyone! Can someone please tell me if it would be better for this story to be classified under crossovers or under a regular Hunger Games fanfic category? I just want to make this story as accessible as possible to anyone interested in this topic. Thanks in advance for any input you have! I would really appreciate it!_

**Chapter 6: Showdown at the House of Blue Roses: Part 2**

"You!" shouts Leeg 2. "What animal do you remind me of?"

Tigris, whom she had been pointing at, immediately feels excitement welling up inside of her, since no one has noticed her tiger-esque plastic surgery since her long-ago days of being a top stylist.

"Ah!" Leeg 2 ceases her contemplation. "You're a kitty-cat!"

Immediately, all five of the Crazy 451 begin cackling wildly, doubling over in their chairs. Coin smiles and Johanna scowls as the ensuing hilarity progresses. Tigris' feline cheeks could not be any more red as her disappointment flares.

"You're right!" says Fulvia, ever the brown-nose. "She _does_ look like a kitty-cat!"

"Hey Kitty-cat," says Jackson seriously, drilling her knife into the table. "Bring us five pigs, cooked whole."

"That's not on our menu," Tigris snaps, with a hint of a whine in her voice.

"I don't care!" Jackson protests, slamming her knife into the wood. "Bring them, damn it!"

As the others join in the chanting for pigs, a drunk Mitchell pierces through the noise.

"Hey, hey, Kitty-cat," he slurs as he taps her crossed arms and spins around to look at her. "Give me a kiss."

The group grows even more wild at that, with Tigris well beyond mortified and Fulvia laughing nervously, worrying that the rest of her high-class clientele may begin to complain about the noise of this crude crowd. Little does she know, however, that I am brewing something far more distracting outside of the room.

"Alma Coin!"

The rowdiness immediately stops once someone's booming voice is heard outside on the dance floor. Coin's face immediately falls to its usual scowl as they all look to where the noise originated from.

"You and I have unfinished business!"

All five guards spring into action, jumping over the table and past Fulvia and Tigris to thrust open the sliding doors. They stand in a menacing line along the balcony, blocking the entrance to the room as Coin is escorted by Johanna to the middle of the protective line to see what is going on.

The entire building is now silent. The people dancing freeze in their tracks, "The Stylists" stop playing, and everyone eating at the tables above and below has either gathered at the balcony or stopped dining to crane their necks and look at the scene displayed in front of a support beam just adjacent to the dance floor.

As Coin daringly makes her way to the edge of the balcony and looks out from the midst of her guards, she sees Plutarch leaning against the beam awkwardly with one arm outstretched and looking distressed, a single stream of blood dripping from his panting mouth.

I, the origin of the voice and the person holding Plutarch, slowly peek my head out from behind his pudgy figure. My skin-tight Quarter Quell uniform glistens as I reveal myself, reminding Coin who I am. But I don't think she needs a reminder. For the first time ever, I see her legitimately surprised as she lays eyes on my beyond angry face. I can feel how bloodshot my eyes are, how visibly my head shakes in anger, how determined I look as I stare back at the woman who did a part in killing me.

"Peeta," she whispers to herself, allowing her mouth to hang open a bit after uttering my name.

We lock eyes for a few painful seconds, me picturing her smugly scowling over my bloody, beaten body all those years ago. But not this time. I decide that I need to tell her how much I mean business.

So, I swiftly slice Plutarch's arm off.

He gives a bloodcurdling scream of agony, much like the one Portia had given when Coin pumped her chest full of bullets.

The entire room reacts to what I just did. Some scream with a volume not much lower than Plutarch's, others slam their hands against their gaping mouths, and a few vomit upon seeing the hose of red water emerging from Plutarch's shoulder as he clutches the spot and falls to the ground in a growing puddle of his own blood. The moment his severed arm hits the ground, the guards all whip out their knives and point them at me, a stark contrast to the looks of not-so-confident disgust on all of their faces. Even Johanna puts her hand over her mouth as Plutarch shrieks his throat raw and sprays his blood all over Fulvia's fancy dance floor.

Coin and I, however, do not react at all to the sight of the suffering man at my feet. We continue to stare at one another dead in the eye as I finally inch toward the base of the balcony slowly. Though my knife remains down at my side and my stare is trained solely on Coin, the clientele immediately, almost as if on cue, run screaming from the establishment in dead unison. It would be almost comical to me, all of them running around me as if I had my own personal forcefield and funneling into the one narrow hallway behind me, if I bothered to turn around. People push and shove and fall around me, but no one comes within ten feet of me as I cross the glass dance floor to the stage. Flavius and Octavia have probably pushed each other down selfishly four times each by now, trying to make it to the door before Venia does.

I can tell that the exit door behind me is congested by the sound of people screaming at one another to move faster and climbing over one another to get out, even though I couldn't care less about anyone here except for the man already rolling around on the floor in agony, the woman I'm locking eyes with now, and the six people who stand in my way.

As the room begins to quiet, signaling that the exit traffic has finally cleared itself, I stop in my tracks in the middle of the stage below the balcony, two small pools on either side of me between the stage and each staircase.

I must look very menacing as I turn my head to show her my entire face close-up, as the guards all wear looks of apprehension at having to eventually face me in battle.

As the guards all point their knives at me, Coin remains calm.

"Kitty-cat," she demands Tigris behind her with a cock of her head. "Beat it."

Tigris happily does so, sprinting down the stairs and through the hallway, ecstatic to leave Fulvia and this whole impending bloodbath behind.

I nod subtly at Coin, a sign that I want her to make a move, as I have clearly already done by amputating her publicist's arm.

"Jackson," she commands to the guard next to her, who glances at her once before flipping herself over the balcony and landing gracefully a few yards in front of me, knife poised to stab me. I look at her menacingly as she yells and moves to attack me.

As she races toward me, I give a sly smile and rapidly flip on the heating mechanism of my own knife, causing it to go up in flames. All I do is meet Jackson's knife in the air and my own slices hers clean in half. She stares in disbelief at the stub of a knife she has left and, in the ensuing confusion, is stabbed right in the stomach by my super-heated knife. She grabs the knife in her stomach and lets out a final exhale of pain as her bowels boil and I thrust her into the air. Her comrades look on in despair as I hurl her off of my sword and into the pool at my left, steam rising from her dead body as her boiling entrails make contact with the cool water.

"Tear the bastard apart!" Coin commands as the remaining four guards immediately run toward the right staircase to meet me in battle. I give her a menacing glare that says "We'll take care of this later."

I slowly walk to the base of the stairs to meet my attackers. Leegs 1 and 2 stop at the top of the stairs and give an intimidating District 13 war cry before hoisting up their swords and hopping down the stairs in unison. I meet them coolly, slicing them one after the other over and over until they are both barely standing. With one hit of my knife, they both fall down at the same time, neither of them wanting to be alive while the other is not.

Mitchell and Homes descend the stairs calmly, doing a slow weaving technique that I find unnecessary before they both meet me at the bottom, causing me to hack at both of their knives to no avail. We all freeze once again, both of them trying to disorient me by bringing down their knives painfully slow. It doesn't work, however, and I manage to fight Mitchell off as I slice open Homes' chest and send him staggering backwards into the right-side pool.

I would love to watch as two pools of blood now form, but I instead am forced to vigilantly stare at Mitchell as he crosses behind a pillar, inching his way around me as I follow his movements. He moves the palm of his hand from the tip of his knife down the base, his hand like a spider, before shouting and pointing his knife directly at me. As he jumps down on me, I just knock his knife out of the way before literally stabbing him into the pillar he was once hiding behind. He makes one futile attempt to stab me, squealing bravely, before I pull the sword out and watch him fall to the ground, joining his comrades.

I shake the blood off of the knife and head back to Coin, who is looking down at me cockily, clearly unconvinced that I will last much longer with whatever it is she has in store for me next.

"So, Alma," I say, feeling pretty confident myself. "Any last subordinates for me to kill?"

"Hey."

I look to the left staircase, where I see the origin of the voice. Looking grim as ever, Johanna Mason stands at the top of the staircase, carrying what looks like an axe-head at the end of a very long metal chain.

"Johanna Mason!" I say, genuinely happy to see my old ally. "How have you been?"

"Shut up, Mellark," she spits back. beginning to descend the staircase. "You don't care about me. You tried to kill me."

I should have known. "That isn't real, Johanna," I say. "We were allies, remember? I care about you."

"That's a lie," she says almost robotically. "No one cares for me. No one ever cared for me. You're the reason I'm like this. You killed my family and forced me into prostitution before you captured me in the games and tortured me." She swings the axe around menacingly.

I shake my head. Clearly her memory was hijacked during my time as Snow's distraction, one of his ways of ensuring that someone would still be around to kill me if he was not. "No, Johanna. Snow did all of those things. He brainwashed you, and he hurt all of us. I know you feel you have to kill me to fulfill your life's purpose, but I beg you, walk away."

Then, her frown turns and she begins cackling wildly.

"You call that begging?" she asks sardonically before reaching the bottom of the stairs and frowning at me again. "You can beg better than that, Bread Boy."

She drops the axe-head on the floor before her leather boots and I have no choice but to prepare for a fight. I point my knife at her to signal that I am ready, and she smiles once again, this time wickedly. She hoists the axe from off the ground and spins the chain around her head, thus spinning the axe around in the air above us. Someone is trying to disorient me yet again, and this time, it's working. I can't help but look back and forth from the spinning axe-head on the end of the long chain and the wicked girl before me grinning, poised to launch the bizarre weapon at me any moment.

When she finally does, I emit a sound that sounds partly like a grunt and partly like a horrified yell. I look on helplessly as the axe that I've just hit with my knife bounces off of a pillar next to us and realize that this won't be easy.

She closes in on me, swinging the chain with great talent and dexterity in every direction to try and slice my arms off. I do my best to deflect each launch with my knife, but eventually she manages to wrap the chain around my weapon and, despite my best efforts to stop her, pull it from my grasp and send it flying behind herself. In my surprise, she slingshots the axe back and hits me hard in the chest with its blunt edge, sending me flying backwards over a table.

As I clutch my chest in pain on the ground, I look up and see her narrow her eyes in a smirk, ready to launch again. I quickly flip myself up and grab the table I flew over by one of its legs, using it as a temporary shield and distraction. My plan works, and the axe goes flying right through the table with its chain in tow, effectively breaking the table and allowing the leg I am holding to become my new makeshift weapon. I grip it as if it were a legitimate defense mechanism, stepping back as she launches the chain once again.

She tries to sweep my feet, but I do a high backflip into the air and land on another table behind me. She runs for me, and spins herself onto my table just after I find myself a new table to stand on. I can't help but notice the glass that I break as I regain my footing and wait for her next attack.

This time, she drops the axe-head and kicks it to me, only to have me swing the table leg and reflect it back at her. She doesn't notice it hit the pillar behind her and bounce back to her again until it hits her in the back of the head and sends her crashing down, table and all.

I take advantage of the opportunity and swoop down to beat her skull in with the table leg, only to have her wrap the chain around the leg and push me backwards without it.

She stands quickly before I can, and clicks a button on the axe-head that releases a second axe on the other side, creating a flying double-sided axe. If I stood up faster, I would see the axe coming for me before it slices into my shoulder. As I glare at my already-bleeding wound, I look up just in time to see the chained projectile headed for me once again.

I duck just in time, but I sit back up too early and am horrified when the chain wraps itself around my throat and the axe sinks itself into a pillar behind me, effectively creating the perfect opportunity for Johanna to choke me.

Johanna spins herself around again and again, growing closer to me as she tightens the chain. Despite my best efforts to keep the chain loose around my neck, I can't fight it as it constricts my windpipe. Johanna finally stops pulling inches from my face, watching as my pale skin is turned bright red by all of the blood gathering at the surface of my tissue. She's watching the light go out of my bloodshot blue eyes when I see something: another severed table leg-this one with nails sticking out of it.

Using the last bit of energy I have left, I catapult the table leg toward me and grab it, using it to dig into Johanna's laced leather boot, causing her to shriek as the nails pierce her foot. She loosens the chain just enough to allow me to slam the nails into her spike-haired head.

I stare in surprise at the body of Johanna Mason, both relieved and disappointed that I killed this brave warrior. Blood drips from her eyes as she falls to her knees and then collapses before me with the nails still in her head. I close the poor girl's eyes and salute her, taking the chain off of my neck and retrieving my knife from across the room. Poor Johanna Mason, at least she is finally free.

As I pick up the knife, I look back at Coin, who now holds Johanna's small handheld axe. Without showing it, I wonder amusedly how she thinks she's going to be able to fight with that tiny thing. But then I hear the whirring of thirty-two hoverbikes growing louder as they surround the building. Fulvia looks around nervously at the sounds, clearly already traumatized by the events that she has witnessed standing behind Coin.

I close my eyes and release an imperceptible sigh as Coin smiles in self-pride, knowing that she is going to unleash all manner of terror upon me.

As the sounds grow louder, I ask her another question. "Is that what I think it is?"

"You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you?" she replies slyly.

"Actually, for a moment," I counter as the whirring finally stops. "Yeah, I kind of did."

"Silly Bread Boy."

_Don't forget yours suggestions for where to put this and you comments!_


	7. Chapter 7

**I'm so sorry for how long it's been since I last updated! I'd love some comments/questions!**

"Silly Bread Boy."

Once she says this, we hear loud footsteps clomping down the hallway in heavy boots. I don't have to turn around fully to see Boggs literally jump into the room from the exit behind me and give a District 13 battle cry at the top of his lungs that causes a swarm of Peacekeepers, members of the Crazy 451, to enter the building from every entrance.

They jump in from windows, jump down from balconies, and run in from doors all around me. They leap intimidatingly over staircase railings and wield their high-tech knives menacingly. Clearly they've been asked to shed their usual guns and nightsticks for these weapons so that this would be a fair fight and Coin could maintain her dignity. Why she thought that weapons would be a factor and the fact that I am hilariously outnumbered would not, I do not understand.

Boggs himself has a weapon about five feet long that appears to be a thick nightstick, and he holds it at his side firmly as his soldiers gather around him. It takes a good while for the entirety of Coin's personal army to make their way into the building and onto the dance floor where I wait for them, but my body still faces Coin as my eyes do all of the observing. When they finally form a ring around me, poised to attack, another satisfied smile slithers across Coin's face.

I guess this is it, I think to myself. This is the moment that most of my training has come down to. How I will manage to cut my way through I-don't-know-how-many bodyguards and the legendary District 13 general, I do not know. All that I do know is that not one of them will stand in between Coin and me. I will take my revenge, or die trying. Preferably the former.

I slowly prepare myself for the impending battle by holding up my knife before my face and looking at everyone around me, namely Boggs, judging what to do first. I show no emotion as I abruptly bring the knife into fighting stance and switch on the fire mechanism. Half of the Crazy 451 flinch and a few gape in awe at me, slightly intimidated by their future killer.

They cautiously close in on me, the tension in the room building to extreme amounts. A few inch forward with their knives like children trying to work up the nerve to kill a spider with a stick. This will be _too_ _easy_, I decide, right before I make the first swing and cut a Peacekeeper's arm clean off.

Immediately the fighting begins. Knives are swung at me left and right, and I dodge them all with expertise, giving them slashes in return that actually meet their target. After sawing a few men to the ground, two men come towards me at once. I deflect both of their attacks, pushing one to the ground and holding the other in place while I slice off both of his legs. The flammable liquid from my knife catches his flesh on fire, and he lies on the ground clutching his still flaming wounds.

Boggs pierces through the wall of Peacekeepers waiting for their turn and comes after me, blocking all of my attacks with several swift motions of his nightstick that he holds with just one hand. He yells with each movement, trying to discourage me. What does discourage me is not him, but his weapon.

The damn thing just won't break, no matter what part of it I hack at. Frustrated, I hack at it right in the middle and experience a miniscule moment of satisfaction as I watch it break in two.

This relief, however, is short-lived, as it is evident now that the object is actually two knives fit together to act like a nightstick. The moment they come apart, he takes one in each hand and slices at me, cutting my skin tight uniform across the belly and just barely scratching my skin. I jump back to avoid the majority of the blow and lose my balance, giving Boggs the opportunity to kick me and send me flying onto my back.

Once I hit the ground, I am met with a knife coming down right above my face that I block immediately for fear of losing my nose. I fight all of the Peacekeepers that surround me in an effort to kick me while I'm down, until I finally gain the leverage to do an awkward side-plank and stab sideways into the stomach of another Peacekeeper. Thank you, obliques.

I use the man I'm stabbing to lift myself into the air, maintaining my sideways position and spinning around quickly. This unleashes a series of cuts upon the Peacekeepers and they fall all around me as I land. I use the momentum to knock the knife out of another man's hand, and it flies across the room, puncturing a support beam holding up the balcony opposite the one Coin is perched upon. The room almost goes silent as they look incredulously at the knife now stuck in the wall behind the man, and at his head that is now rolling on the ground since I've cut it off.

I continue to make my way through the army, even dodging an axe that is thrown at me. The look on the face of the Peacekeeper who threw it is priceless as I catch the second axe that he hurls at me and lauch it back at his face.

I don't have much time to revel in my talents, as Boggs is back, and he's pushing me closer to the back balcony. I remember the sword I launched into the wall and jump up behind me, using it as a step-stool to make a quick getaway onto the balcony. The whole army gasps as I grab hold of the railing and struggle to climb over it. They sprint towards the back left stairs to meet me on the balcony. Just as I gain my footing, I am attacked by two Peacekeepers who I butcher easily, their bodies spraying blood on the eloquent walls.

This is about the time when Boggs makes another appearance, using my same route to climb up to the balcony, though with much more dexterity. We engage in intense combat, him pushing me back with every slash from both of his knives, until finally I get the chance to turn and run to escape the balcony in which I know I will be cornered because Peacekeepers are approaching me from behind now.

I go to a part of the balcony that overlooks a display paying tribute to the Training Center used in the Games. I guess that Fulvia thought a small reminder of what the tributes had to go through before the Games would be a delightful thing to present to those dining and dancing. I, however, finally find a use for the pole vault sticks that no one ever used but Enobaria. I spot them leaning against the balcony and grab one, jumping onto a table below. I slash a few of the Peacekeepers that gather at my feet before giving Boggs a sly smile and letting the pole go so that it whiplashes back and hits him in the face. I watch him fly through the wall behind him before flipping across a few more tables so that I can meet with the remaining Peacekeepers.

But before I can indulge in any more fighting, I hear a horrifying sound of soft footsteps amid all of the chaos. I turn around and the worst is confirmed: Coin has lost interest in watching me destroy her army and is retreating back to the meeting room. I will _not_ let her escape.

Like a student trying to finish the last paragraph of a timed essay, I make haste in running and slashing through the crowd, trying to get past them so that I can fry the biggest fish. Just as I am about to ascend the left stairs, a Peacekeeper literally pounces on me and hacks at my knife repeatedly, pushing me back into the crowd. One hack is so strong that I bend backwards and stab a man behind me. The aggressive Peacekeeper does a few spinning moves which ultimately backfire and get her knife lodged in a support beam next to me. I seize the opportunity and stab her in the stomach, calculating what to do next as her mouth fills with blood.

I decide to use her as a human shield and spin the both of us into the crowd. I lead her through it with one hand holding my knife and the other hand holding her own knife in the air. To my surprise, the Peacekeepers clear a path for us, not wanting to further injure their already impaled comrade. Once they have formed a circle around me, I throw the severely wounded Peacekeeper at two others and take her knife in my other hand. Now that I have two weapons, they all back up in fear as they wonder what I will do next. Once they decide to advance, I drop to the floor and begin chopping their feet off of their ankles, and one by one they drop like flies around me. As the severed feet and crying guards pile around me, I stop my violent break-dancing and hop off the ground, now sufficiently free to go up the stairs.

But once I reach the top, I turn around and am annoyed to find the last living guards, some injured, following me up for their final assault. Because I know that I cannot effectively search for Coin with these guys following me, I lead them into a spacious room adjacent to the meeting room where Coin presumably is. The lights are all off, as Fulvia has cut the electricity for no apparent reason. The reason why she is still here while I am murdering people is also a mystery to me, but I don't have time to question that woman.

Once the Peacekeepers have all cautiously followed me into the room, I switch on the flaming mechanism in my knife and partially illuminate the room. They are both amazed and intimidated at the sight, but I do not give them time to gape in awe before I descend upon them.

I slash through the first few, listening to their corpses sizzle behind me. As I continue to fight them off, some crawl away in pain, silently whimpering because of their burning insides. I catch the arm of one Peacekeeper while fighting another off, and then cut off her arm as she screams. As I pause to do an intimidating gymnastics move, the few remaining guards back away before I cut down all but one. I cannot see him, as he has backed away from me pretty far, but I can hear his uneven breathing clearly. I lift my knife just as Fulvia turns the lights back on, and am surprised to see Darius standing before me, horrified.

I drop the knife to my side, as the way he is trembling indicates that he has no intention of using his. Instead of fighting him, I once again use the flaming mechanism on my own knife to slice his down to a stub, piece by piece. When it is finally nonexistent, he drops the plain handle of the knife and puts his hands up in defeat. Wrong answer, Darius.

I take him forcibly and spank him with the butt of my knife, shouting "This is what you get for fucking around with warlords!"

I give him one final spank before telling him to run home to Greasy Sae. He obeys, wiping the sweat off of his forehead and clutching his burning behind as he sprints down the stairs. I am so busy watching his pathetic exit that I don't notice Boggs descend on me.

He pushes me through the wall and out onto the balcony. I almost fall into the blood pool, but catch myself on the railing. He doesn't give me time to help myself up, preferring to kick me while I'm hanging. I still fend him off, however, and soon we both hop onto the unstable railing for our battle. It takes me a moment to acknowledge the fact that I am about to kill or be killed by a legendary general, but that thought is short lived as we begin to attack each other.

He spins around a number of times, unleashing a windmill of knife attacks on me, but I am too quick for him. I catch both knifes with my knife and use the moment of confusion to cut both of his legs clean off. He screams in agony before he and drops to the blood pool, dead before hitting the water. As his corpse sizzles, I take the time to look down upon the destruction I've caused from the spot where Coin stood watching us minutes ago. As the Peacekeepers whine and crawl around, surveying their dead comrades, I decide to deliver to them an oration.

"For those of you lucky enough to still have your lives, take them with you! But for those of you who have lost limbs, leave them. They belong to the Capitol now, just as all of me once did." I then notice Plutarch, now awake, crawling desperately towards the exit. "Except you, Plutarch! You stay right where you are."

As I turn to leave, the guards begin their painful exodus that is even slower than the crowded flight of the civilians earlier. Fulvia runs around the room, mourning more at the destruction of her business than at the lives lost in it. I can't help but hope that her squeals are silenced by a nice fall in the blood due to her slippery high heels.

I step into the meeting room cautiously, peering into the dark space as if Coin would lash out at me right now. But the room is empty. All that I notice is that the back door that leads to the garden behind the place is cracked open. Apparently Fulvia thought it would be a good idea to purchase part of Snow's garden and connect it to her property to further emphasize how he is dead. Nice touch, but I'm more interested in the clear hint that Coin has dropped. I walk to the exit and thrust the sliding doors open, only now noticing how fatigued I am.

I am met with the setting of a pristine garden, covered with white roses, some painted blue, some still white but cut off of their bushes and lying in piles. Clearly Fulvia was not done with this place. The scene is complete with stepping stones that lead right to where Coin is.

Once I see her in the far right corner of the fenced-in garden, I lower my head, not allowing her the luxury of seeing my face yet. But as I step towards her, I can feel her staring at me hungrily as she moves toward me as well.

"Your instrument is quite impressive," she notes. "Where was it made?

I maintain a lack of eye contact. "District 3."

"And who in District 3 made this technology?"

"This is Beetee Latier technology."

She whips her head up at me and whispers urgently. "You _lie_!"

I only shake my head, turning the knife so that she can see Beetee's emblem. She only smiles at it, not entirely believing it and wanting to change the subject.

"Weapons do not win a battle," she says. "I never released any of District 13's nuclear missiles on Snow during his attack on us, and we survived with no casualties, winning the war in the end. I hope that you've saved your energy as I was able to save my people." She whips her head up again, returning to a spot in front of me. "If you haven't, you might not even last five minutes" She gestures to the garden around us. "But, as last looks go, you could do worse. We are in the president's garden, you know."

She steps back a bit, retrieving her own knife from the holster on her back. What I see is a knife that was made not by Beetee, but is still an impressive weapon. It has an incendiary mechanism on it, too. Just like mine.

She steps towards me and bows, but I do not return the favor, preferring to turn my weapon to point at her as it literally catches fire. She stands up, holding the weapon horizontally before her face as she turns the fire mechanism on. She moves it down to her side, holding the holster in her other hand almost as a second weapon, and I lift mine in the air as we finally clash.

As our battle begins, she blocks all of my fierce attacks with little emotion, practically cheating with that second weapon of hers. I decide that I have to get rid of it, so I burn it in two. She stops the fight, looking surprised at the severed weapon. She laughs, dropping the still sizzling stub of a holster, then points her knife at me as I cautiously approach her.

We hack at one another, not hitting our targets until I finally make a mistake. She gets behind me and slashes down my back.

I whip around at the last second, trying to block myself even though she has already created a burning laceration in my back. I stagger backwards and ultimately fall onto a pile of white roses.

She looks down at me and snickers. "Silly District 12 merchant boy likes to play with high-tech weaponry," she mimics.

I almost can't hear her over the sound of my own breathing. She turns to walk away, putting her powered-down knife over her shoulder.

"You may not be able to fight like a soldier," she says seriously. "But you can at least die like one."

No. I refuse to acquiesce. I must continue. Summing up all my strength, I begin to stand up, sticking my knife into the ground for support. She stares in surprise as I finally get to my feet. I did not come all of this way to be killed in President Snow's old sanctuary. Coin will die today.

"Attack me," I command. "With everything you have.'

She does not hesitant to obey, rushing at me and slicing like a mad woman. It does not take long before I give her an attack of my own. I squat down and slash, meeting my mark. Once again, the fighting stops.

She limps backwards as I rise and retreat to the opposite corner. For the first time, I see complete and utter surprise on her face. She clutches her shin where I cut her and stares at me. Her hair is now falling out of its perfect bun, and her mouth hangs open.

"For ridiculing you earlier," she starts. "I apologize."

I hesitate for a begrudging moment before giving in. "Accepted," I say, but I don't want to linger in conversation for too long. "Ready?"

"Come on," she says, almost excitedly. It is at this moment that I realize we are finally coming to peace with one another. This woman, who has lost all of her family, has finally made peace with someone. Too bad she is about to die.

We rush at each other, our flaming swords meeting loudly, the sound echoing into the quiet setting. Coin retreats behind a low fence and the two of us run with one another for a few yards before the fence ends. One finally blow and one of us is hit. I'm not sure if it's me, as we are now facing different ways. But once I see her perfect scalp fly through the air, I know that I have won. I have killed the first person on my list.

I don't look back, but I hear her final words.

"That really was Beetee Latier technology," is all I can hear over the sound of her still frying brain, which is now exposed to the air. She falls to her knees and then to her side, dead. Good bye, Coin.

I trudge over to a bench and sit down, exhausted. Now that Coin is dead, time for number two. But before I can go after anyone else, I need to find out where they are.

"I've kept you alive for two reasons. The first reason is information."

"Go fuck yourself, you stupid blonde! I'll tell you nothing!"

This is what Plutarch spits at me as he lies in the trunk of his own car, being questioned by me as to the whereabouts of the remaining four members of the Mockingjay's Squad 451. But I know that he knows where they all are, as he was their secretary. Clearly he doesn't understand who is in power here.

"But I _am_ gonna ask you questions," I say. "And every time you don't give me answers, I'm gonna cut something off. And believe me, they will be things you will miss!" When he doesn't respond, I decide to go ahead with my plan. "Give me your other arm!"

Despite his pleads and screams, I take the limb and chop it off at the elbow, watching as he bleeds.

Once I calm him down, I ask again. "I want _all_ the information on Squad 451: what they've been doing and where I can find them."

At the threat of losing a leg as well, he tells me everything. I take his information down. Before driving him to the hospital and throwing him down the hill to be checked in, I give him a final message.

"As I said before, I've allowed you to keep your wicked live for two reasons. And the second reason is so that you can tell her everything that's happened here tonight. I want her to witness the extent of mercy by witnessing your deformed body. I want you to tell her all the information you just told me. I want her to know what I know. I want her to know I want her to know. And I want them all to know, they'll all soon be as dead as Alma Coin."

As I sit on the plane to District 4, my next destination, recreating my list, I imagine the conversation that Plutarch and her are having.

"Please forgive my betrayal," he is probably saying to her as she rubs his stands behind him.

**Alma Coin AKA Vulture**

"None of that," she is probably consoling him.

**Finnick Odair AKA Seagull**

"But still, I-"

**Primrose Everdeen AKA Little Duck**

"But still, nothing, except my beating heart at what she's done to my brilliant Plutarch. Now, if you had to guess why he kept you alive, what would be your guess?"

**Gale Hawthorne AKA Jabberjay**

I trust that Plutarch is following the orders I gave him. But Katniss and I already know all the information he is giving her.

**Katniss Everdeen AKA The Mockingjay**

But there is one small piece of information that she and I do not share:

"Just one more thing Plutarch," says Katniss. "Is he aware that we have a daughter?"


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm trying to update more often. I would love some comments!**

Chapter 8: The Massacre at the Capitol

What happened on that day in that small wedding chapel in the outskirts of the Capitol has since become a legend among not just gossipy Capitol residents, but among all people of Panem. Being that it ultimately resulted in the freeing of the country from Snow, it is a very important event in Panem history. Though it did great things for the country, to me it will always have a negative significance, as this was the day that the love of my life shot me down.

Now, the story behind what happened varies widely. Who got killed, how many got killed, and who killed them changes depending on who's telling the story. The only consistently named victims were Snow and myself, and the only heroes that people usually mention are Coin and, of course, the Mockingjay. Caesar Flickerman called it "The Catastrophic Chapel Killing." The district newspapers all called it "The Massacre that Saved Us." But what people often forget was that the whole bloody affair took place during a wedding rehearsal. A _fake_ wedding rehearsal.

After the arena of the third Quarter Quell blew up, I was still searching frantically for my fake fiancée when a giant claw pulled me out of the arena. I did my best to fight back, but the machinery was stronger and faster than me. I was taken captive by the Capitol and by Snow, who was too afraid to lay a finger on me for fear of damaging his own image by damaging Panem's baker boy. However, what he did do to me was far worse. After weeks of forcing me to call for a ceasefire on national TV, he publicly announced that both Katniss' pregnancy and our marriage were a sham and that the Mockingjay had never really loved me. Everyone believed that last part, including myself. Then, he took it one step further.

Right after the Quarter Quell ended and right before District 12 was firebombed, Snow managed to "rescue" the Undersee family from their home and fly them back to the Capitol. The mayor, his wife, and Madge all became political refugees. Madge and I had been somewhat close before my first Games, but were never great friends. Snow permitted that she and I spend some time together, and I at first took this as his way of trying to torture me with the presence of someone who reminded me of the woman I loved. But after a few months, I began to see his evil plot.

Snow had fabricated all kinds of propaganda about the details of Madge and my relationship, making us look more like scandalous young lovers than reluctant acquaintances. Apparently he wanted to unify the districts and the Capitol by showing that their last remaining loyal victor and the future of District 12's governing body were in love. I don't know why he bothered. The Capitol had already been invaded and District 2 taken both long before he announced the engagement of Madge Undersee and Peeta Mellark.

We were required at all times to be positive and play along with it. It took every fiber in my body not to strangle the man sitting before me who had taken my life away, killed my family that I had yet to finish grieving over, and robbed me of my right to make my true love reciprocate my feelings for her. But that last part would never happen anyway. I plastered on the fakest of smiles and held the hand of my _new_ fake fiancée, who felt every bit as uncomfortable as I did sitting across from Snow.

"Now, I'll be doing your ceremony, of course," he smiled, surprisingly smug for someone whose last hope of fighting off the rebels rested on a last-minute fake marriage. "After all, I brought you together, so I believe I deserve to seal the deal."

Everyone in the room laughed in the most strained way possible. Behind Madge and me sat her parents, her father squeezing Madge's shoulders in a desperate way that was played off to be more fatherly and supportive than protective and afraid. They, too, were forced to play nice for fear of being tortured as I had seen happen to Johanna after the Quell. My stylists sat in the seats next to the Undersees, genuinely interested in the marriage of their blonde canvas to the daughter of District 12's mayor. They were her stylists now, which I was glad for, as I was tired of having my chest waxed and I never cared for them anyway.

Next to Snow sat Effie, who was ecstatic to be planning the whole event, as this was the most high-profile thing she had done yet. She laughed hard at all of his jokes and chipped in an idea at every opportunity. To the left of her sitting behind a table covered in different styles of napkins sat Portia, possibly the closest person to me in the room. She knew every bit about what I was going through and was solemn when Snow wasn't watching her. She was put in charge of decoration for the wedding and was to do a good job unless she wanted to end up like Cinna.

"Everything is set up!" Effie cooed. "Portia will be designing the dress, picking the flowers, and decorating. I, of course, have already drafted the guest list. Mr. President, have you decided on the seating arrangements?"

"But of course," Snow went on. "Mayor and Mrs. Undersee, you obviously will sit in the front row of the bride's side. Peeta, I am terribly sorry that your family will not be able to do the same."

The tension in the room was almost tangible as I shot daggers at Snow with my eyes for torturing me like this. Portia flashed me a sympathetic look as Madge tightened her grip on my hand.

"Once we're married, Madge will be all the family I need," I replied coolly.

"I should hope so," he shot back.

"Have you two decided on a napkin color yet?" Portia asked suddenly to try to ease the tension.

Madge and I shook our heads. Napkins were the last thing on our minds.

"I took the liberty of picking out a muted orange color," Portia started. I remembered again why she and I always got along so well. "I thought we could mix it in with a soft yellow."

"I thought the color scheme was to consist of forest greens and pure whites," Snow interjected. He looked more at me when he said this, clearly trying to rouse memories of Katniss in me. Madge squeezed my hand again, this time more for herself, as the forest also reminded her of Gale. That was the most prevalent part of the torture that she and I shared, but this was not the fault of Snow's.

This was entirely the fault of the Mockingjay and her new lover.

Not long after the Quell, Katniss was often depicted fighting in rebel propaganda alongside Gale, which neither Madge nor I thought anything of. Madge had grown to love Gale as much as I loved Katniss, but their relationship was far more mutual. Apparently they had found each other during our Victory Tour when Gale was convinced that Katniss would never truly reciprocate his feelings. She felt a bit used at first, but she soon found that Gale really did love her.

But as the rebellion drew on, the love between Katniss and Gale was proved true. Though I clung to the notion that their relationship was as fake as ours, Madge eventually brought to my attention that they had truly moved on from us. Her reasoning made sense. Gale and Katniss had both grown up in the Seam and were meant for one another. They _needed_ each other. No one ever needed the mayor's antisocial daughter or the youngest of the baker's sons. As we watched the romance of the Mockingjay and her soldier unfold, Madge and I slowly succumbed to our fates.

We knew that our demises were sealed. If the rebels succeeded, we would be labeled as loyalists and killed immediately with the rest of Snow's government. If the rebels did not succeed, we would be maintained as symbols of the union and forced to watch as our former lovers were executed for their rebel involvement. So, when Snow provoked me, I had no choice but to leave the room.

"Excuse me," I said as I stood up straight. "I have to go get some air."

"Hurry back, my boy," Snow snickered. "You don't want to keep your young fiancée waiting."

I turned and made my way slowly down the aisle as Snow began to converse with the Undersees. I stared down at the rug of the aisle before me, unhappy that there was no hope of Katniss ever walking down it toward me. She would have preferred the District 12 crossing of the threshold and toasting, though. We would have done that if the Quell hadn't happened. After all, that was what I told everyone had already happened. But of course, the Capitol would never let us get away without a big fancy wedding, and it surely would have been a bigger, fancier version of this. She would walk down an aisle just like this to marry me, but I doubt that she ever would have grown to truly love me.

As I considered this, I began to miss her so badly that I actually started to hear her voice. I was truly losing my mind now; the voice was faint, but clear as day. In fact, it was _too_ clear. Snow must have been playing it through some hidden speaker to mess with me again.

The voice was singing the valley song, and its sweet resonance was getting stronger as I neared the open door to the chapel. In spite of hideous look of the streets, ruined by the rebel army that had already passed, all I could see was the beautiful sun once I discovered that the voice belonged to a real person.

There she was, sitting right outside of the chapel on the porch, singing the valley song as beautifully as she had when we were five. It was the real Katniss.

I looked away quickly, sure that I was hallucinating and that when I looked over at her again, she would be gone. I walked out onto the porch of the chapel and shifted to the right side of the place to lean on the balcony overlooking the trashed avenue. After I breathed in the smoggy air, I exhaled slowly, releasing more stress than breath. Being that her song was the only sound piercing through the silence, I had not choice but to acknowledge its source. I turned back to my left to the bench that I expected to be empty, but it was not.

It was her. And she was still singing, perched on the bench with her head cocked to the sky and her eyes closed. I watched her in awe as she finished the song

"_Here is the place where I love you._"

When she was done, she slowly turned her head and opened her beautiful gray eyes to gaze at me. She wore her Mockingjay uniform which was draped in a cloak that covered most of her body but did not hide the outline of her bow. I almost didn't notice all of this, as her scowl turned into a smile before me.

"Hello, Peeta."

I found myself unable to respond, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Here was the woman I had spent most of my life pining for and dedicated two years of my life to protecting, looking beautiful as ever. But she didn't love me back. She abandoned our one-sided relationship to form one with Gale without even looking back. She never did love me, and played with my emotions from the beginning. She had absolutely no reason to come see me now.

"What are you doing here?" the words finally tumbled out.

"Well, a minute ago I was singing," she answered in a very out-of-character and sarcastic tone. "Now, I'm looking at the most handsome groom these eyes have ever seen." She stands and steps toward me, maintaining a healthy distance. This incident reminded me of when I confronted Katniss about her recognition of the Avox just before our first games on the twelfth floor of the Training Center, except this time she had the upper hand.

"_Why_ are you here?" I clarified impatiently, not moving from my position.

"Last look," she said without hesitation.

"I doubt he'll let you come to wedding," I chuckled, loosening up a bit before walking toward her with my arms still crossed. "Unless you decide to play nice."

"You were always the nice one," she stepped toward me again.

"Maybe that's why," I reciprocated the movement, "I'm here and you've been out there with _him_."

Suddenly she grew defensive. "Peeta…"

"Save it," I said, taking the final step so that our feet almost touched. "I've seen you two in the propos. You know, the ones Beetee gives all of Panem no choice but to watch? It was _always him_, Katniss."

She looked like she was about to protest, but then her face contorted into something different. "I could say the same about you, Mellark. How could you turn around and get engaged to the only girl in District 12 with whom Gale and I both had a connection?"

"You _know_ this is staged," I countered. "I barely knew Madge before. And I would never do that to you or Gale on purpose. But once I saw that you and Gale were so happy to finally be together, I figured that Madge and I were better off without the both of you. Say what you want, but you can't _pretend_ to be in love with Gale. You're a horrible liar, and I know better than anyone what your fake kisses feel like. And the ones you give Gale in those propos are _not_. What you have is real, and I'll be damned if I let either of you hurt Madge or me again."

She was fuming by the end of that, so much so that she threw open her cloak, I assumed to reveal her gun.

But she made no threats, letting the gun fall to her side. What I saw was far more painful than any bullet. Katniss was pregnant.

I couldn't believe it. Not only had she turned her back on us just after I had started to think that we could be something, she had decided to give Gale the child that I had always wanted. I at first couldn't believe my eyes, but this time I could not fight the truth.

It wasn't a large bump, and it was only visible because of her skin-tight uniform; she was only about three months along. After all, that's how long it had been since she got to 13 and reunited with Gale. I was instantly hit with a painful realization.

"So," I said, triggering some kind of unreadable emotion on her face that looked like hope but diminished once I continued. "Your relationship has been going on for far longer than the propos have suggested. You and him probably didn't even wait ten minutes after you found out 12 was destroyed to conceive _that_."

I pointed to her small bump, and she clutched it with pain in her eyes, hurt that I referred to her and Gale's child as a "that."

She opened her mouth to say something, but didn't. More emotions crossed her face in ten seconds than I'd seen on her face in the entire two years that we'd been surviving together, and in the end her eyebrows became permanently knitted in anger.

"Fine," she said. "Good-bye, Peeta."

And just like that, the love of my life walked figuratively out of it and literally behind a building. I wanted to go after her, to call out to her, to grab her and tell her that it was okay, that we could work through whatever we needed to work through.

But I did none of those things. I stood and watched her retreat, her head hanging like a sad dog's. When I unfroze myself from the anger, I turned and walked toward the door, back down the aisle to the altar where everyone was now gathered and grabbed Madge's hand like I never had before.

She was surprised, as seemed everyone else. Snow was about to read the vows, and the others stood fanned around us watching.

"Peeta, are you alright?" Madge asked.

"Never better" I smile with falsity at her, fueled with rage over Katniss' indifference towards me. "May we begin, Mr. President?"

Katniss returned to the group not long after she left with the intention of delivering a message to Peeta. She still looked as dejected as she had when Peeta banished her from his presence.

Gale and Finnick were waiting for her, and Coin, Prim, and Plutarch had just been flown in for the occasion in exchange for Boggs, Jackson, the Leegs, Mitchell, Homes, and Cressida's crew. Coin wanted to kill Snow. Prim wanted to be there for Katniss. Plutarch wanted to witness the whole thing. Gale and Finnick were unconditionally loyal to Katniss.

As soon as she returned, Gale rushed to comfort her. She ignored his efforts.

Prim and Finnick gave her consoling glances from a distance. Coin was cleaning her gun as Plutarch craned his next to try to see into the chapel that was blocked by the building they were hiding behind.

"What did he say?" asked Gale. He knew the answer and he was happy about it. He rubbed her shoulder like he had been accustomed to doing those past few months, but she did not respond to his touch.

Katniss rubbed her abdomen for a long time and did not divert her eyes from the ground before her as she answered. Prim and Finnick refused to believe what she relayed to them, but they were only prolonging the inevitable.

Prim and Finnick preached hope, claiming misunderstandings and Capitol censorship. Katniss and Gale preferred vengeance. They had barely reached a conclusion when Coin called for them, now fully suited up and heading towards the chapel. Katniss and Gale stormed behind her and Prim and Finnick trailed along reluctantly with Plutarch who was taking some kind of notes.

The Vulture, seeking to feed on the remnants of Snow's regime once he was gone, gave a few military gestures to the others before cocking her massive gun and resuming her own position.

The Jabberjay, excited by her commands, exclaimed conspiratorily about the impending success of the rebellion and about what the new government would be like. He put a fresh arrow in his crossbow for Madge's heart and anticipated the assault.

The Seagull explained to Plutarch that he should stay outside until the shooting was done before coming inside to watch the beating, just as he had always waited until the fisherman had landed onshore before rushing among them to see his father. He gripped his trident reluctantly.

The Little Duck trotted alongside her sister, hugging her before picking up her own gun and joining the others. A stray tear fell from one eye, but she swatted it away as she prepared to kill the family of the only other girl who brought her sister joy.

The Mockingjay's face finally rose from the ground as she took in the sight before her. Squad 451 stood lined up in front of her, each of the four of them looking over their shoulders to her, waiting for her signal. She looked up the steps, down the aisle, at the altar, where the boy with the bread recited his vows to the mayor's daughter.

Some things, once you do, they can never be undone.

But this was something she wanted done.

She gave the signal. Coin, Finnick, Gale, and Prim headed up the stairs, their weapons pointed at the wedding party. Katniss listened to their footsteps, and to the surprised exclamations of Madge's parents, and to the screams of Effie, and to Peeta yelling her name before it was all silenced with the guns of her comrades.

The Capitol was silent now. The only sound was Peeta's breathing. And even after the four of them encircled him and beat the living hell out of him, and he fell to the ground, and Katniss finally entered the chapel to see him, his breathing was still all she heard. As she wiped his bloody, shaking, handsome face, she did not think once about what she was doing. She drew an arrow and shot it straight into his gentle heart, just after he told her he still loved her.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: The Lonely Grave of Maysilee Donner**

"So let me get this straight," Prim says in disbelief. "He cut his way through 451 peacekeepers before he got to Coin?"

"No, there wasn't really 451 of them," Katniss clarifies. "They just _called_ themselves the Crazy 451."

"How come?"

Katniss looks at her in disappointment. "You know why. They wanted to be like us. Squad 451, the Crazy 451. Some kind of symbolism in it, I guess."

Prim laughs. She's almost seventeen now, fully grown inside and out. She changed a lot after the massacre that she reluctantly took part in. She had wanted to believe that Peeta could return to Katniss, as she always favored him over Gale. But that was not to be. Instead, she helped the others beat the hell out of him before Katniss shot him in the heart, both literally and figuratively.

But that didn't kill him, which is why Katniss is here, standing outside of Prim's cottage which stands on the ground between the forest and the underground entrance to District 13. Prim couldn't bring herself to return to 12 due to all of the memories, so she decided to stay in 13. However, she refused to go back to the underground catacombs of the district and was too afraid to move to the woods like many others had after the rebellion. So, she now lives awkwardly between the woods and the underground, teeter-tottering on the edge of life.

She spends most of her time indoors when she isn't working, concocting different medicines for her few customers. She's become a bitter shell of the innocent girl she once was, and Katniss hates to see her like this. But Prim doesn't mind; she's grown somewhat resentful towards Katniss ever since what she ordered to happen to Peeta. This visit is very rare, and painful for Katniss. But Prim is nonchalant, still holding a pail of milk she just obtained from Lady, her only permanent companion. She left Buttercup behind in 12, as his fur reminded her too much of the man whom she thought would be her brother-in-law. But after what she's just heard about Coin, she definitely doesn't feel the same brotherly admiration toward him.

"Anyway," says Katniss. "His District 3 technology took them all down."

"Beetee made him something?" Prim asks, swirling around the fresh goat's milk that looks disgusting and that she'll probably be too lazy to pasteurize or drink. She ponders why she even bothered to milk Lady in the first place.

"Sure did."

"Didn't he swear an oath on the memory of Wiress to never make another weapon again?"

"It would appear that he has broken that oath."

Prim laughs. "The other victors sure do know how to hold a grudge, don't they?" She looks sideways at Katniss. "Or maybe you just tend to have that effect on people."

Katniss returns to the subject of warning her sister. "I know that this is a ridiculous question before I ask it, but have you kept up on your knife skills?"

As a result of mostly shutting herself off from the world, Prim has lost a large part of her sanity. She's already showing signs of her mother's depression, something that Katniss is not fond of in the least. As a result, Prim has very little concern for her own well-being and is therefore the last person to keep up on her self-defense skills.

"No," Prim says matter-of-factly. "I pawned the knife you gave me at the Hob."

"You pawned the knife?" Katniss asks incredulously. "Beetee made that for you specifically from me! How could you?"

"I don't need it," Prim starts. "I get visits from people like once a week, usually desperate sick travellers with nowhere else to go. The only real job I have is taking care of the prostitutes down at Cray's brothel, which is hardly the doctor job you imagined for me. If Peeta wants to come down here and start something, I'm not going to stop him."

"Look," says Katniss sternly. "I know we haven't spoken in a while, and that's mostly my fault. I shouldn't have done what I did and traumatized you like that but I needed you by my side. I couldn't just have Gale, Finnick, and a bunch of strangers help me take him down. But you've got to get over being mad at me and pull yourself off your feet because Peeta is coming, and he's coming to kill you, and unless you accept my assistance, I have no doubts he will succeed.

Prim contemplates her older sister's words and releases years of wisdom from her young mouth. "I don't dodge guilt, Katniss. That man deserves his revenge, and we deserve to die." Then, she returns to being the crazy girl she has become. "But then again, so does he!"

Katniss' face softens as she stares at her sister. She is both proud of her wisdom and angry at her lack of desire for help.

"So," says Prim. "I guess we'll just see, won't we?"

OoO

It's well past 7:00 when Prim parks her bicycle outside of Cray's brothel in the woods of District 13. When the Capitol released Cray, having no real use for him in captivity, he decided it would not be best to return to Twelve, considering that he had slept with half of the starving young women in the Seam and was not entirely enthused over the idea of facing any of those lucky enough to survive. So, he took the riches that the Capitol gave him in return for his silence over the things he knew about the former government, ventured into the wilderness between Districts 12 and 13, and took advantage of the many desperate young women and men there.

Apparently, Bonnie and Twill were not the only ones who never made it to District 13. Several other travellers found themselves lost in the woods on the way to the mysterious district, and with nothing and nowhere else to go, they decided to turn over their bodies to Cray, for only he had the means to survive in the wilderness thanks to the Capitol.

At first, business was good, as many people travelling to the flourishing outlying districts stopped in to enjoy Cray's fresh sex cuisine. Most of the customers were from the Capitol, and they were more than familiar with the idea of trading secrets and money for sex; this time, however, the Capitol people were the ones keeping Cray's secrets, as operating a brothel is now against both District 13 and Panem law.

But now that the revolution is quite done, and the Panem government is becoming increasingly more attentive to the safety of its citizens, people have been more reluctant to partake in what the brothel has to offer. As a result, business is not what it used to be. In fact, Prim's bike is the only vehicle parked outside Cray's sex house in the woods.

She walks in nonchalantly, humming "The Hanging Tree" as she saunters in and approaches the front counter where Twill and Thom sit bored, drinking and playing a dice game as they wait for a customer that won't come. Twill and Bonnie turned themselves over to Cray after months of barely surviving in the wilderness, having no other option if they didn't want to starve. And after District 12's mines were shut down and the bodies of the firebombing victims were all removed from the streets of 12, Thom had no other choice but to hunt Cray down and beg for a different kind of work. Now, he supplies his body to the Capitol instead of coal. Of course, the Capitol no longer asks him for it in light of the new laws, in spite of the fact that his body remains delightfully hardened from years of mining.

"Late again," Thom chastises Prim, still acting as somewhat of an older brother to her. That may be why it was always hard for her to look at him when he came to her about sexual diseases that he had received from customers. "Can't you tell time, girl?"

"There's nobody in here, Thom," she says, leaning over the counter and eating a handful of peanuts from a glass bowl.

Then, they hear an aged, drunken voice scream from an office deep within the place. "Twill!" shouts the voice. "Is Prim here yet?"

"Yeah!" Twill replies.

"Tell her to get her no-good ass back here!"

"Okay!" she replies, then turns to the object of her boss' anger, whispering ironically. "Prim, Cray would like a word with you."

Prim trudges back to Cray's office, where she leans on his doorframe apathetically before noticing the scene before her.

Bonnie, half naked, is sitting next to Cray's desk, the both of them taking turns injecting themselves with small amounts of morphling. It takes a moment for the disgusting old man to notice Prim standing there.

"You wanted to see me," Prim tells him.

He looks up at her with glazed eyes before responding. "I don't know what coal mine you worked at before that allowed you to stroll in twenty minutes late, but it wasn't one owned by me." True, but he never enforced the miners going to the Capitol's mines on time, either.

"Do you want me to leave?" asks Bonnie, tying up the very little clothing she does have on.

"No, I want you to sit and wait," he says possessively.

"Cray," Prim challenges. "I'm the nurse here. I take care of the prostitutes, cure their sexually transmitted diseases, even heal their wounds resulting from some of the more sadistic, freaky customers. The problem is, there are no customers around to give those things to them! I mean, what did you think would happen? Peacekeepers come trolling through the woods every week. Do you really think anyone would risk being caught in a brothel? It's illegal!"

Cray nods, pretending to contemplate her words with an intellect that he doesn't possess. "So, the reason that you're not doing the job I'm paying you to do, is because you don't have a job to do?"

Prim tries to protest, burying her arm in the crook of her elbow in anguish over her mistake. She shouldn't have challenged Cray. Nobody challenges Cray. He's ruthless. He may appear generous, but that is only because he's too lazy to be practical and will do anything for sex. But he is anything but generous to Prim, probably because she is the first beautiful Seam girl to deny him, choosing instead to be his nurse. So, he puts her on probation, crossing off her name on the work calendar one shift at a time, each "X" with his red marker like an ax to Prim's head. When the torture is over, he throws the marker down emphatically.

"Go home, Prim," he commands. "Until I call you. But before you leave, talk to Delly; she's got a job for you to do. Oh! One more thing-tuck in that tail. Your shirt is coming out the back of your pants, Little Duck."

Prim trudges back out of his office, her head down as she pushes past the posters of nude people and mostly-nude people. She tries to leave, but Delly catches her. She's Cray's number one girl, which is probably why her perpetually positive attitude is all but gone.

"Prim," she says. "The toilet's backed up again."

OoO

When Prim returns, she parks her bike sadly outside of her cottage. She hops off the contraption and drags herself to the door, pausing to suspiciously eye a hill at the very edge of the woods that hangs over her home in a foreboding way. She reminds herself that the hill is one of the reasons that the woods intimidate her so.

She ascends the steps to the front door and into the small building, grabbing a kettle to start her tea, as I can tell from the sounds of the metal being tossed onto the stove. The quiet sounds of the kitchen are what I take as my signal to remove myself from my hiding place.

I've been hiding under the stairs of her cottage for a good two hours now and my prosthetic is really digging into my thigh, so I'm ecstatic to be able to free myself from this position. I hold my knife close to me as I roll out from under the wooden stairs and onto the dirt patch before Prim's cottage. My dark black jacket and dark blue jeans don't seem to mind a little dirt considering their hue, and I couldn't care less if I get a little messy tonight. Prim is going to get a lot messier.

I kneel beside the stairs and peek through the crack under Prim's door to see what I can see. Even though all I see is her feet, I can tell that she is sitting in a rocking chair facing the door, singing "The Hanging Tree" while she waits for her tea to heat up. She's right where I want her.

I crouch back down on the ground and bring my sword to my lap. I slowly remove the holster, listening to the tantalizing sound of the metal as it is slowly exposed to the world outside its leather home. The moment it is out I raise it to the side of me in fighting position and begin to stand, until Lady begins bleating.

I instantly flatten my body against the wall of the cottage as Prim ceases to sing, gets up, and opens the blinds to the kitchen window above me. She looks out into the night and sees nothing as she shrugs a shawl over her shoulders. She closes the blinds and sits back in her chair before continuing to sing again.

I relax again and bring the knife back to fighting position, knowing that the coast is clear. I remove the scarf covering my head and throw it down onto the ground, my yellow waves returning to rest on my forehead. I am poised and ready to take down my next victim. I swing the door open and am met with two bullets in my chest.

OoO

Peeta flies backwards about fifteen feet into the dirt patch outside Prim's home and lies almost motionlessly. Prim had been waiting for him with a long shotgun she purchased long ago from Rory. She lowers the gun and laughs as she stands up and walks lazily over to Peeta's sprawl-out form on her lawn. She carries the gun over her shoulder and kneels before him, chuckling at his anguish.

"Not even you can stand against a double-dose of rock salt that deep in your pecs," she says, revealing that she had not actually pumped his body full of lead, though the small bleeding wounds on his chest and his exhaustion suggest otherwise. "And not having pecs as massive and as gorgeous as yours, I can't imagine how bad that shit must _sting_!"

Peeta would be appalled at the change in personality in his would-be sister-in-law if he were not so preoccupied with the increasingly laborious act of breathing. She circles his body, kicking his knife out of his hand, removing his jacket full of weapons, and prying the extra knife from his belt-loop. He is not much of a threat at this point.

He glares up at her as she kneels beside him, his angry blue eyes and puffed-out pink lips contrasting with the dirt on his face. Unable to move or speak, he settles for spitting blood on her face once between choppy pants.

She closes her eyes at the action and wipes her pale skin with a handkerchief before spitting right back at him. She knows that he won't be able to wipe his face, but hopes that he'll appreciate her trying to clean the dirt off for him. She decides that it's time to cage this canary.

She stands up and rolls him on his back with the heel of her foot, exposing his massive buttocks and thighs through the tight jeans. She knows the sleep syrup will act most quickly when injected there. As he grunts and reaches before him to try to crawl away, she removes the plastic tip from the syringe in her back pocket and injects a very small amount into the muscular mountain of his left buttock. He grunts once more at the feeling of the needle before his neck relaxes and he falls face-first into the dirt.

Prim goes inside to drop off the needle and gun, and then returns with a fresh cup of tea and a Mockingjay communicator that Katniss gave her long ago. She sits in an old lawn chair before a metal wire table upon which she places her tea after sipping. Slouching, she extends the antenna with her teeth before opening a new channel to call someone she would never think to call. Luckily, he also possesses this piece of outdated technology.

After a short delay, he answers.

"Katniss," Gales husky voice hides his excitement.

"Wrong sister, you hateful asshole."

"Prim," he changes.

"You go it," she replies, taking another sip.

"And...why did you call me?" he inquires rudely.

"I just caught Lover Boy."

"Did you kill him?" Gale immediately asks, having waited for news on his least favorite human being for weeks.

"Well not yet," she explains. "He's got the syrup in his veins right now. I could bash a rock against his head if I wanted to." She stands up and walks over to where she kicked his knife, picking up the sharp object. "Anyway, guess what I have in my hand."

"What?"

"A brand new piece of District 3 technology, courtesy of Beetee Latier himself. And I must say, this is some high-tech shit." She flips on the igniter and watches the flames in awe.

"What are the terms?" He wants the weapon almost as much as he wants Peeta's pretty head on a plate.

"Listen," Prim explains. "Get your brawny ass down here tomorrow morning with 1 million of whatever currency they're pressing on us to use, and I will give you mankind's greatest invention. Sound like a deal?"

"Sure," he says. "On one condition."

"What?"

"He must suffer to his last breath."

Prim laughs. "That, Gale, I can guarantee."

OoO

Cold. All I can feel is the cold steel of a pickup truck as I lie in its bed. My face is pressed hard against its grooves and I find it hard to believe that I've been lying in here in such discomfort for so long without waking up. Whatever Prim injected me with must have been potent enough to keep me in a deep sleep, but not potent enough to do so for more than a few hours.

I look around me. My milky bare skin is shining in the light of the full moon and it is riddled with light goosebumps caused not by the heat of the air, but by the coldness of the truck. My hands are so tightly bound in front of me that the rope is beginning to eat into my wrists, and my feet are tied as well, though my boots and jeans are preventing the rough material from rubbing against my skin. I writhe a bit to try to free myself, but my efforts are futile, and only alert my captor to my awakening.

I hear someone fiddling with the lock on the hatch of the truck's bed, and my eyes dart back down to my feet to see Prim's smirk reflecting the moonlight at me. She laughs upon seeing me here.

"Looks like it's gonna be a big, big, big night, Mellark!"

She grabs the rope around my ankles and yanks me roughly out of the truck, very strong for a girl her age. I forget that she's all but grown up since I went under.

I glance around me. There's woods everywhere, not terribly dense though. The night is quiet and warm, but the air is cold as it weaves through the trees. Though the heat of the night is provoking beads of sweat on my chest and forehead to form, my nipples remain at full attention because of the cool breeze.

Prim smiles down at me, and is about to talk to me when something that I just now notice catches her attention.

A few yards away from us, there is a whole in the ground and an old wooden box lying a few feet from the hole. It looks like a coffin, and upon closer inspection of the gravestone, I conclude that it must be. The name on the grave is Maysilee Donner.

Obviously the mayor pulled through to have his sister-in-law's body buried out here, a much better alternative to the dirty District 12 cemetery. I feel a short-lived pang of sympathy for the also deceased Undersees, which is apparently not a feeling shared by Prim and whoever has been defacing the grave and has just tossed a shovel out of it.

"I'm done!" says the voice, its owner not visible due to the depth of the new crater. "Get me out of this hole!"

Prim goes over to the grave and pulls her friend out of it. I am surprised to see Leevy exit the orifice in the ground. I guess the two of them got closer when Katniss left District 13 to be the Mockingjay. Leevy dusts herself off, rejecting Prim's offers of assistance.

While Prim grabs the ladder out of the grave and tosses it in Leevy's truck, Leevy goes over to a small cooler and produces a small alcoholic beverage. As I lie here and observe them, I realize my fate. I am going to be buried. And I am not happy about it

The two women stare down at me condescendingly and begin to ridicule me.

"Would you look at those eyes!" Leevy remarks. "This asshole is furious."

"What did I tell you?" Prim says to her friend. "Is he the cutest piece of bound Merchant boy meat you've ever seen, or is he the cutest piece of bound Merchant boy meat you've ever seen?"

Leevy cackles and nods. "Puts Gale's body to shame!"

"Got anything to say for yourself?" Prim asks me. I don't allow her the luxury of my words.

"Merchant boys call this the silent treatment," Leevy explains. "And us Seam girls let them _think_ we don't like it."

Leevy cackles once again into the night, but Prim refrains from reciprocating, finding me much more interesting. I am fuming and staring daggers at her, and she can sense the fire behind my eyes. She decides it's time.

"You get the head, I'll get the feet," she instructs Leevy.

The two girls may be strong, but I am twice their size, highly trained, and more experienced in general. I shake them off easily after they lift me up, and they drop me back on the ground. I look up behind me to see Leevy step back from my head, and I believe for a moment that she is just afraid of me before I realize that Prim is straddling me with a can of mace aimed at my eyes.

"You see it, don't you?" she asks me with a very evil tone in her voice. "I whipped up this bad boy especially for this occasion. This stuff could take down a bear with just a few drops." She pauses to revel in my fear. Normally, a beautiful girl sitting on my chest would invoke a very different reaction in me. However, I am a gentleman and this girl happens to be threatening me.

"Now, you're going under the ground tonight, and that's all there is to it. Now, I was gonna bury you with this on your person." She holds up a flashlight and shines it in my face for emphasis. "But if you're gonna act like a mutt, I'm gonna spray this can right into your eyes, Lover Boy! And then, I'll still bury you. So, you have two choices: You can either go in the ground quietly, or you can go in the ground blind and in pain." She holds up the mace and the flashlight in both her hands and doesn't do a thing till I begrudgingly nod towards the flashlight.

I've chosen to die quietly.

They put me in the new wood coffin which still smells like sawdust with my wrists and ankles still tied and my shirt still nowhere to be found. It doesn't matter; a little nakedness is the least of my problems. I struggle to hold the flashlight with my bound hands as my body shakes from my sweaty head to my toes which are still enclosed in my boots.

They place the top on the coffin and begin hammering it on one nail at a time. With every nail, the amount of moonlight streaming into the coffin decreases and my anxiety increases. The hammering shakes the whole contraption and rattles my entire being. With every bang I watch as my glorious rampage comes to a close.

_Bang, bang, bang_. I kill the flamboyant orderly. _Bang, bang, bang_. I chop off Plutarch's arm. _Bang, bang, bang_. I cut my way through Coin's peacekeepers. _Bang, bang, bang_. I slice the top of her head off. _Bang, bang, bang_. I send a machete flying into Finnick's heart in front of his son. All for this.

The banging stops. I look to the source of the last of the moonlight. All I can see are Prim's eyes, and they've returned to the sympathetic glow that they always held when she was a child looking through the bakery windows at the cakes I decorated. We lock eyes and she looks like she might have a change of heart before she gives her final decree with a wavering voice.

"This is for breaking my sister's heart." _Bang, bang, bang_.

I am alone in the dark with only my panting to keep me company.

They push me along the forest floor for a bit, and I feel every tree root that we go over extra sensitively. My panting grows louder when I feel the coffin start to tilt and hear Leevy's maniacal laughter. Crazy drunk.

My mental criticism is interrupted when she and Prim push me over the edge and down twenty feet to my resting place. I grunt loudly when I hit the ground, and this starts a whole other set of loud breathing. The silence following my landing is so eerie that I turn the flashlight on out of fear.

I jump when the first round of dirt hits the coffin. Horrifying thoughts enter my head. What if the dirt is so heavy that it caves in the coffin's top before they're even done burying me? What if my flashlight runs out of batteries? What if I run out of oxygen? I panic and begin using the flashlight to try to break through my wooden prison as more dirt crashes above me, growing fainter and fainter.

This futile act prompts the flashlight to stop working, which makes me actually call out.

"Fuck! No way. Come on!"

I slap the flashlight till it comes back on, and decide to stop hitting things with it. I lie here and stare up at the wood ceiling as the dirt finally stops. I can't hear them anymore, but I'm sure they're laughing their asses off and heading home.

I'm pretty sure that sweat on my bare chest is shining brighter than the flashlight ever could, and my heavy breathing is slowing as I begin to consider my earlier fear. I survey the area below my boots. It's a cramped space, but it may work for the idea that I began cooking the moment Leevy finished digging my grave.

I realize that I'll need all the light I can get and all the rest I can get, too. So, I power off the flashlight and decide to take a short nap to collect myself and remember when I learned the skill that I am about to use.

OoO

**Reviews would be awesome!**


	10. Chapter 10

_Trying to update more often. The lines in italics are taken from Suzanne Collins' __Catching Fire__ and __The Hunger Games__. Hope this isn't against any rules._

Chapter 10: The Drunken Mentoring of Haymitch Abernathy

_"It's too bad we can't go somewhere," _Katniss said _wistfully_.

_"Who says we can't?" _I asked_._

_The roof. We _ordered_ a bunch of food, _grabbed_ some blankets, and _headed_ up to the roof for a picnic. A daylong picnic in the flower garden that _tinkled_ with wind chimes. We _ate_. We _lay_ in the sun. _

_ No one _bothered_ us._

I remember it so vividly. It was beautiful, that day, riddled with happy little moments that Katniss probably never thought twice about. It was incredibly ironic, our happiness so close to what we thought would be our deaths.

I spent a great deal of time sketching Katniss. She even sang for me, and I can't remember her ever being so light-hearted and not feeling so guilty about never feeling the affection for me that I felt for her.

My mind wandered to our escort, our sponsors, and our mentor, who obviously pulled through for us, or really more for me, by giving us the day off. I couldn't help but feel that Haymitch did feel the smallest amount of hope and affection for us.

"I bet Haymitch pulled through for us to make this happen," I said to Katniss. She only mumbled in response, perhaps half-asleep.

My mind wandered to the drunken madness that is Haymitch, and the things that made him that way.

OoO

_Haymitch _skirted_ along the edge of the cliff as if trying to figure something out. His foot _dislodged_ a pebble and it _felloff the cliff and into the abyss below_, apparently gone forever. But a minute later, as he _sat_ to rest, the pebble _shot_ back up beside him. Haymitch _stared_ at it, puzzled, and then his face _took_ on a strange intensity. He _lobbed_ a rock the size of his fist over the cliff and _waited_. When it _flew_ back out and right into his hand, he_ started_ laughing._

Katniss and I were watching the recording of the Second Quarter Quell, trying to understand first-hand the story behind the legend. We had very little knowledge on the man's talents, and we knew he had neither the pride nor the desire to tell us a story himself. So, we sat on a couch in our room in the training center and watched the Fiftieth Hunger Games.

Then_ we _heard _Maysilee _Donner _begin to scream. The alliance _was_ over and she broke it off, so no one could blame him for ignoring her. But Haymitch _ran_ for her, anyway. He _arrived _only in time to watch the last of a flock of candy pink birds, equipped with long, thin beaks, skewer her through the neck. He _held_ her hand while she _died_, and _I could feel Katniss squirm beside me.

_Later that day, another tribute _was_ killed in combat and a third _got_ eaten by a pack of those fluffy squirrels, leaving Haymitch and a girl from District 1 to vie for the crown. She_ was _bigger than he _was_ and just as fast, and when the inevitable fight _came_, it _was_ bloody and awful and both _had_ received what _could've_ well _been_ fatal wounds, when Haymitch _was_ finally disarmed. _

I held my breath, thinking for a stupid split of a second that this was the end of Haymitch Abernathy. Of course, this was the very notion that kept the Capitol residents watching every year.

I wondered what he would do with the knowledge of the force-field in the abyss, if he ever had the opportunity.

_He _staggered_ through the beautiful woods, holding his intestines in, while she _stumbled_ after him, carrying the ax that _should'vedelivered_ his deathblow. Haymitch _made_ a beeline for his cliff and _had_ just reached the edge when she _threw_ the ax. He _collapsed_ on the ground and it _flew_ into the abyss. Now weaponless as well, the girl just _stood_ there, trying to staunch the flow of blood pouring from her empty eye socket. She_ was_ thinking perhaps that she _could _outlast Haymitch, who_ was_ starting to convulse on the ground. But what she _didn't _know, and what he _did_, _was _that the ax _would_ return. And when it _flew_ back over the ledge, it _buried_ itself in her head. The cannon _sounded_, her body _was_ removed, and the trumpets _blew_ to announce Haymitch's victory. _

I clicked_ off the tape and we _sat_ there in silence for a while._

OoO

_We half-_led _half-_carried _Haymitch back to his compartment. Since we _couldn't _exactly set him down on the embroidered bedspread, we _hauled _him into the bathtub and _turned _the shower on him. He hardly _noticed.

_"It's okay," _I said _to _Katniss. _"I'll take it from here."_

She seemed grateful, offering to send in some Capitol attendants to help me. I denied the offer, mostly because I hated even seeing those Capitol people. After she left, I began the grotesque task of stripping Haymitch to his underwear, which could have used a washing themselves if I were not already on the verge of covering him in my own vomit.

He didn't seem like he planned on waking up anytime soon, so the idea of being choked out in his bathroom once he woke to the sight of a boy washing him left my head. I stood up and looked around the porcelain shelves for something to wash him with. My eyes fell on a clean white loofah, which I wetted and lathered with body wash. I knelt back down again and was startled to see Haymitch wide awake and staring at me.

I stumbled backwards, dropping the loofah that I had intended to scrub his gross hairy chest with onto my khakis. A wet spot formed on my lap, and the water seeped into the rest of the pants, causing them to cling to my thighs. The khakis and the white button-down shirt I was wearing were getting kind of snug on me already, as I was a little thicker than my brothers who handed the clothes down to me. So, the water of course didn't help with leaving much to the imagination at that point. If only it were Katniss in here looking at me…

And speaking of people looking at me, Haymitch still was. He was studying the wet spot, eyeing me with what I at first thought was ridicule. However, when no laughter followed, I realized that his stare was more studying, calculating.

"Damn, boy," he said, impressed. "Those are some real horse-legs you got there. I believe I noticed you before, picking up sacks of flour. You are the baker's kid, aren't you?"

"Yes," I said nervously, not expecting to have to speak to my mentor instead of clean him up and feeling somewhat violated for having been stared at, even though it was purely for his judging whether or not I would make it in the arena.

"Well then you're ten times better than what I usually have to work with," he continued. "Most of those Seam boys have legs that you could fit your whole hand around. Not very good for running from the Careers." Already, the Games lingo began. "Not their fault, of course. You probably get a little bit more to eat, don't you? Your shoulders are broad, too."

The man was definitely drunk, talking so openly about my body and not even caring that my face was probably more red than a tomato.

"Now, I may be drunker than I don't know what," he went on. At least he was self-aware. "But I think we may be able to work with you. What kind of abilities do you possess?"

I couldn't believe he was already asking me questions. I was still holding the loofah.

"You're in no condition to start mentoring right away, Haymitch," I told him. "Just go back to sleep so I can get this over with and throw you in bed."

I inched toward him and he surprisingly pulled a pocket-knife out on me. I wondered how he got it, since I had pulled his pants off of him and tossed them to the other side of the room.

"Back off, boy," he warned me. I swallowed hard and did as he said, dropping the loofah on the floor. "I will not have some Merchant boy stand there and order me around like he knows more than I do. I'm your mentor, and the first thing you need to learn about having a mentor is that I call the shots. Understand?"

I nodded my head numbly. I was very used to being scolded by my mother, but the idea of being yelled at by a man was very different, and I never considered that it would have a different effect on me. Haymitch's voice carried a heaviness to it, a graveness that my mother's words never had.

"Good," he said. "Now explain those talents to me."

I thought for a second. "Well, that's just the thing." I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling utterly useless.

"What is?" Oh, right. He was still drunk.

"I have no talents." I explained. "I've spent my life in a bakery." I would really rather have had this conversation later on and somewhere else, but he was adamant in his stupor.

To my surprise, he just laughed at me. And it once again wasn't out of ridicule, but out of understanding. "Rule number one, boy - don't underestimate yourself. There are gonna be a lot of cocky bastards out there in the arena, but underestimating yourself can be just as dangerous. Those thick thighs and broad shoulders I noticed earlier are certainly worth more than you're letting off."

"Well I lift things," I offered weakly.

He nodded slowly and pulled his pruned hand out of the bathwater to cycle his index finger in the air in encouragement. "Go on."

"Big sacks of flour," I said. "We carry them every day and knead the dough we make. Takes a lot out of us."

"What do you do outside the bakery?"

I thought about it, and actually had something to say. "I'm on the wrestling team. I think I've risen up pretty high in the ranks." It was a little embarrassing to admit, but also true.

"Fantastic!" he said, clapping his hands together and splashing water throughout the room, including into my eyes.

He then began cackling wildly before pointing an assuring finger at me. "Great. Now, we'll arrive at the Capitol sooner or later, then training will begin. Don't worry, I'll show you the ropes then. But for now, eat up and get some rest."

I nodded at him again, not knowing what to say.

"Oh! And one more thing. Don't tell the other one about this conversation. She'll get jealous."

I left the room with a smile on my face, knowing that though he didn't know her, I did know her and I knew that his remark was true.

OoO

"You _what_?" he almost shouted at me, not really believing what I had to say and also not wanting to wake up the rest of the District 12 team. I had pulled him aside into my room in the District 12 suite, not long after Katniss and my training scores had been given. An eleven and a seven, something he was proud of. Of course, now I was probably extinguishing that excitement in him.

"You heard me," I said disrespectfully, knowing he was already too taken aback to strike me for it. "I've loved Katniss since we were children, and I want to know how I can use that to my advantage."

"Excuse me while I vomit," he told me, turning around to contemplate what I had said.

I waited patiently for his answer. "There has to be something I can do, strategically I mean. We can make these Capitol people think whatever we want-"

"Shh!" he commanded, whipping around and putting a finger over my mouth before dropping his own voice to a whisper. "Don't talk like that. I need to think before I can decide what can and cannot be said."

After about an hour of talking, Haymitch and I agreed that my feelings for Katniss would be beneficial to our survival. I was to reveal them during my interview with Caesar, and it would be the first time that a romance like this would happen in the Games. Katniss, of course, would not be at all happy once she found out, but I would just have to cross that bridge when I got there.

OoO

Training with Haymitch was tough, to say the least.

On the very few occasions that he trained me alone, he focused mainly on one stupid exercise: the man had me throwing boulders around.

Though it was a simple task, it was not an easy one. I was to pick up a boulder of the heaviest weight, take it to the center of the room, and throw it as far as I could. After five throws, fatigue was hitting me like a brick wall and the distances were decreasing with each toss. When I picked up the boulder and carried it back to the center for the sixth time, I dropped it on the ground next to me and groaned in exhaustion.

Haymitch had been watching me from afar, his arms crossed in judgement.

"That's it, Peeta?" he inquired. "I know you've got more in there than that."

"I do, it's just…" I faltered for a moment. "I just don't see the point in any of this. I throw these boulders around, and for what?"

He became cross again. "I told you not to question my methods."

We stood there for a while, him contemplating something and me waiting for him to finish contemplating that something.

"Pick up the rock and follow me," he instructed, not bothering to look at me as he turned and headed for the elevators.

I did as I was told, grabbing the handle of the immense object and following him closely. We stepped inside the elevator and he pressed the button for us to head to the roof, where I often went at night to think. I became slightly annoyed that he was going to invade what felt like my sacred space with what I only assumed could be another insane workout. But I remained silent about my feelings, as he remained silent about his plans.

The elevator felt as if it was going slower than usual, possibly from the added weight or possibly because Haymitch had overridden the system somehow to prolong my agony. My brow began to sweat again as my arm felt as if its muscles would snap any second. I looked up through the glass ceiling of the box, counting the seconds before sunlight reached it.

When we finally got to the top, Haymitch strolled over to the edge of the roof and looked down. I shuffled behind him with my heavy load, prepared to drop it at a moment's notice. I was about to open my mouth to ask for guidance when he finally spoke.

"Your arms are strong, Peeta," he said before turning to implore me with his Seam gray eyes. "I want them stronger."

I looked at him in curiosity, wondering what else we could possibly do. I've been tossing around the heaviest of the boulders all day. Is there really a next level?

"Toss the boulder off the building," he said, interrupting my thoughts.

Surely, he couldn't have been serious. He and I both knew that the boulder would bounce back up and kill me. The force-field tactic worked in his favor at the end of his Games, but there were no tributes to kill up here on the roof.

Haymitch sensed my apprehension. "What's the matter? Don't think there's a point?"

I was going to nod, but decided against it.

"Can't you do it?" he asked, almost mocking me.

"I can, but I don't know if I'll be able to catch it when it returns."

"Too bad!" he spat. "You have to be ready for anything. What if a Career is barreling towards you and Katniss at lightning speed? What will you do then? Step aside and let him or her land on Katniss? Or will you make yourself into a wall and push the joker back?"

He yelled that last part, and stood right behind me to scream, "Begin!"

Tentatively, I walked toward the edge of the training center and peered down below, where masses of Capitol residents were betting on tributes. I wondered for a second if I could break through the force-field below and hit the ground, as that would be much less painful than what Haymitch was expecting me to do.

With one great sigh, I heaved the boulder with all of my might down towards the street. I watched as it flew away from me, then hit the force-field and came rushing back towards me. I braced for impact, one foot forward and both arms out ready to catch the thing.

My first few attempts were met with embarrassment. Each time the boulder knocked me backwards and then rolled away. Though I did not sustain any injuries aside from a few scrapes from falling, my pride was hurt severely by Haymitch's incessant shaking of the head.

We stayed up there all night, until the sunset had turned my favorite shade of orange. Though I never successfully caught the boulder without staggering backward, I did manage to catch the object without falling. Haymitch nodded approvingly at this, before turning around and heading for the elevator without saying a word. As I was exhausted from an afternoon of throwing a rock and catching it, I called out feebly to him but did not pursue him, preferring to lie on the ground for a while.

OoO

"Took you long enough," Haymitch laughed, making fun of the fact that I hadn't wasted one second after hearing the announcement of the third Quarter Quell. I sprinted over to his house as fast as I had sprinted away from the cornucopia in my last Games.

"We need to save her, Haymitch," I pleaded, already on my knees before him, which wasn't weird because he was on the ground, too.

He sighed for a while. "She's going into the arena. You know that."

"I know," I said quickly. "But we need to ensure that she gets _out_, too. I'm nothing without her, Haymitch. Nothing." It was true. It was painful, but it was true. I began to look forlorn, staring at the floor.

"Now just hold on a minute," he instructed. "Don't give me that hopeless, lover-boy bullshit. This girl may be your whole life, but I'll be damned if I see you hang your head like a dog who lost his bone over the simple prospect that she's gonna be in danger."

He was still surprisingly coherent for a drunk.

"She'll always be in danger. There's nothing you or I can do about it, Peeta. So, if you're ready to fight and give your life for her, pick up that head of yours and stop sulking."

I did as he said, looking at him instead and wiping off the sadness from my face.

"While you're at it, grab me some whiskey."

OoO

I wake up and flip on the flashlight, having rested up just enough. The goosebumps have gone from my bare skin and been replaced by beads of sweat. It is pretty hot twenty feet below the ground.

I shine the flashlight around the coffin once more to survey what I have to work with. Once satisfied, I aim it directly down at my boots, which are tied together with one of Prim's belts. I kick furiously, trying to free the shoes from my feet, until they come off. I toss them aside and am free to use my toes to try and take my prosthetic off.

I used my big toe to press the button several times before my prosthetic actually detaches itself and I am able to reach down and search inside it for what I am looking for. There is a small chamber in the top of the leg, below where my real leg ends, that I use to hide things frequently. Right now, I have hidden in there a small file which I begin to use immediately.

I struggle to slice into the rope around my wrists to no avail, as I am unable to get the flashlight into the right position. I even try putting it in my mouth, but I am faced with horrible flashbacks to when I was at the mercy of Capitol men while in a coma. So, I decide to rest the tool in the crook of my neck while I wear the rope down.

After almost a minute of sawing at it, the final thread breaks loose and I rejoice, shrugging off the rope and tossing it away before putting my prosthetic back on and putting the file in by back pocket for safekeeping.

With my hands free, I rub my wrists and test the wood above me. It's high quality, Leevy must've given an arm and a leg to get it. I know now that I must use the technique that Haymitch showed me. When I caught the boulders, I had to push against them with all of my strength so that they wouldn't push me back. Now, I realize that this wooden wall is just another boulder, just another enemy standing between Katniss and I.

Except this time, Katniss' safety is not my objective.

"Okay, Haymitch," I whisper mostly to myself. "Here I come."

With that, I use both fists and push against the wood. After the first few times, my knuckles are bleeding and the wood is not breaking. But I do not lose hope.

A few more tries and cracks begin to appear in the wood alongside my blood. The nails begin to free themselves and I can feel the coffin start to collapse. My grunting becomes louder as I hit the wood harder.

As dirt starts to flood my wooden prison, I punch with both fists harder and faster, knowing that if I waste one second I will drown in earth.

The moment a large enough hole appears in the coffin's lid, I jump out of it, using my legs to propel myself into the ground above me. I practically swim upwards, climbing over the mounds of dirt that threaten to crush me. I have to keep a swift rhythm as I make my way to the surface so that I don't fall below again.

When I feel my hand finally make contact with open air, I probe the ground urgently and dig my fingers into the loose dirt surround my would-be grave. I hoist my head up too, and take in the deepest breath I've taken since I almost drowned in the Quarter Quell.

I almost sink back under, and am forced to reach further and claw at tree roots in order to save myself from returning to my dirty dungeon. I drag my body out from the black hole in the ground, grunting and heaving all the way.

When my body is finally free from the confines of the earth, I lie on my back and pant loudly for a few minutes, absorbing the sounds of the forest. My matted hair has become dirty blonde due to sweat and obviously dirt, and my entire body is coated in the stuff. Exposure to the dryness, coupled with sweating, has made me very thirsty. So, I limp to a nearby stream.

As I dip a cupped hand into the cool waters, I notice a deer staring at me from across the stream.

"What?" I ask it. "I've had a rough night."


	11. Chapter 11

_I am so sorry for the huge delay! I was busy as could be and the fight scene here proved harder to write than I thought. Enjoy!_

OoO

Chapter 11: Gale and I

The next time I remember to pack a file in my prosthetic, I need to put an extra set of clothes in there, too.

I trek through the woods in the scorching heat of what is only mid-morning. Tripping over rocks and roots in my bare feet, I can't help but also wish that I brought my boots with me from my would-be grave.

Even though the trees are providing somewhat of a canopy, I can still feel the sun beating down over my bare back. My sweaty curls hang down over my forehead, allowing sweat droplets to drip down my chest. My somewhat tight denim pants are not helping with my overheating and a lot of dirt is accumulating around the bottom due to my lack of shoes. I am dressed in the worst possible material for a hot day's hike.

I continue stubbornly through the brush as heat waves rise up from the ground in the distance. The dirt on my face and the blood on my hands have long been dry, a stark contrast to the overwhelming wetness I feel on my sweaty chest.

Despite having taken a generous drink from the stream, I still feel dehydration seeping into my being. I walk like this for hours, holding onto my sanity through sheer will power and the desire for revenge. My dry mouth is still dangling open when I reach a clearing where a huge hill stands in my way.

The land is so steep that I am forced to climb on my hands and knees, and my chest rubs on the grass as I ascend the mountain.

When I finally pull myself to the top, I stand triumphantly on the hill and gaze down at not one, but two of my targets.

Gale is just pulling up in front of Prim's home, swinging a silver parachute in his arm. What the hell is he doing here? I can't see much from up here, but he appears to be wearing a new suit which looks to be plain. Good for you, Gale. You may be an asshole, but you still never bought into any of that Capitol fashion garbage.

Prim stands in her doorway, clad in only a long shirt and what looks to be a pair of thin underwear. Gales stops dead in his tracks upon seeing her sleepy, half-nude figure, clearly appalled by the nudity of the girl whom he once looked after like a sister. They don't seem to have the same relationship anymore. It makes sense; Prim is crazy and Gale is pure evil. They're simply not compatible at all these days without Katniss to glue them together.

Though all of this doesn't matter; they're both going to be dead very soon. Just after Gale ducks into Prim's home, I begin my sneaky descent into her compound.

OoO

"Now _that_ is a District 12 funeral!" Gale jeers in joy. "Bury him alive just like our fathers. Genius, Prim!"

Prim is only half-listening. She's half-asleep, half-awake and making an alcoholic drink that doesn't look half as good as anything Greasy Sae would have made. It's possible that spending her teenaged years in a dry district has ruined her taste for alcoholic beverages.

From where I'm crouched, I can see Gale, too. He's waiting in her sitting area while she mixes the drink in the kitchen. Thankfully for the sake of awkwardness, she has put on a robe. Prim may have a beautiful body, but the one thing that Gale and I can agree on is that we never want to think of our little sister in that way or have to look at her now curvy figure.

"What's the name on the grave he's buried under?" Gale asks, pulling out an electronic tablet to take notes.

Prim still doesn't look at him, but begins to actually listen. "Maysilee Donner," she says, punctuating each word with the tossing of a piece of ice into their drinks.

Gale carefully copies the name into his tablet from Prim's rocking chair. He's sitting with one leg crossed over the other, his cleaned and pressed suit draped over his body like a flag over a mountain. He may have grown even more since my coma began, but I'm pretty sure I can take him down.

"Can I look at the knife?" He asks Prim, nodding in the direction of something sheathed on the table.

Oh, shit.

She's selling him my knife. _My knife_. The knife that Beetee made for me especially to kill Katniss specifically. Oh, they are both going down hard.

Prim cocks her head with one drunken eye closed in the direction of Gale's suitcase that she is now pointing to with her pestle. "That's my money in that silver parachute, isn't it?"

"It sure is," replies the sly Jabberjay.

"Well then, Gale," she says, returning to her concoction. "It's your knife now."

Gale walks over like an excited child and tears the knife from it's leather home. As the metal rings in the air, Prim begins to pound some cilantro with her pestle and mortar. Gale says something that no one hears.

When Prim is done pounding, she throws the pestle in the sink and yells, "What's that you said?"

"I said, 'So this is Beetee Latier technology?'"

"That's Beetee's work," she confirms, placing the cilantro bits in each drink. Gross.

"Didn't you used to have one of these?" He asks, sheathing the instrument.

"Yeah, at one point," she replies, evening out the level of each drink.

"How does this one compare?" He inquires slyly.

For the first time this morning, she shows emotion. "You _can't_ compare Beetee's weapons. If you're gonna compare them, you compare them to every other Capitol invention ever made."

"Fair enough," says Gale, returning to his seat and waiting for his drink.

Prim sloppily lifts both drinks and crosses into the sitting area to meet Gale. I can see her sloshing the drinks around like she's already drunk four of them, and Gale seems to notice, too, when he apprehensively accepts one. He struggles not to wince as he sips it and Prim sits down in front of him.

"So," she begins. "Which 'R' you filled with?" She punctuates the thought with a smile.

What?

"What?" Gale asks, echoing my thoughts.

She readily explains. "They say that the number one killer of all the miners in District 12 was never starvation or black lung, but the lack of motivation. By the time the day ended and a man or woman's family was still starving and demoralized, he or she would face a serious logical question: Why do I even bother? No matter how hard the miners worked, their circumstances never improved and there was simply no light at the end of the tunnel. When they were children, the hope of surviving the reaping was reason enough to push on each year. But in adulthood, there was simply no reason to continue the strain.

"And the way I figure it, you and Peeta shared a similar relationship."

Great. She buried me alive and now she's talking behind my back. Gale leans in, finally excited.

"So now that you don't have that motivation to compete for Katniss' heart because Peeta is dead, which 'R' you filled with: relief or regret?"

He considers for a minute. "A little bit of both."

"Goat shit," she nearly interrupts him. "Now you're starting to sound like Katniss, all indecisive. Which one do you feel more of? Answer the damn question, Gale."

Surprisingly, he concedes, looking up after a minute and speaking. "Regret."

He doesn't explain, and she doesn't ask him to. She just stares at her glass and drones on. "You know, I gotta give it to you, Gale. Nobody ever gave Katniss as much heartbreak as Peeta did."

What is she talking about? Katniss is the one that did all the heartbreaking.

"She thought he was so damn perfect. And he was, but nobody could've avoided what happened to him." She walks to the flimsy kitchen table and sits right next to the window where I am watching, forcing me to crouch lower. The silver parachute with her payment inside is sitting before her, and she eagerly opens it.

Once she does, she begins cackling wildly. Gale should be phased by this statement of insanity, but he seems focused on her like a hawk. He walks over and leans on the kitchen bar, watching as she gratefully counts the money. She eyes him suspiciously for a second, but is too tempted by the currency before her to not take it all out and count it.

In a split second, some kind of mechanism is tripped by the removal of the money and the tiny silver thing explodes in her face.

It's not a large contraption, but its power is great and concentrated directly at her head. The girl catches fire and begins screaming and running around the kitchen, toppling things over and shouting expletives at Gale but not finding him due to the fact that her eyeballs are melting and pouring out of their sockets. She rolls in the debris and money on the floor to try to extinguish the flames, but it's no use.

Primrose Everdeen is dying in kitchen, and Gale Hawthorne has done it.

I clamp one hand over my mouth in shock, not expecting to witness Gale Hawthorne kill the younger sister of the woman he loves. She's still breathing with some difficulty, and I know that in about a minute this will stop. I can't bear to look at her bald, bleeding, and burnt head as she clings to life and Gale approaches her chuckling.

This is why he was eyeing her so much, I realize. He had no intention of paying her, he wanted to _steal_ my knife. But why kill Prim?

When he sits down on the chair facing her, I realize he may be about to answer that question.

"I'm sorry, Prim," he says sardonically. "That wasn't very fair was it? But then again, the Capitol was never very fair with us."

The Capitol has nothing to do with Prim, so I push this possible motive out of my head.

"And here's the real kicker," he continues. "The bomb that just set you on fire is Beetee Latier technology! In fact, we designed it together, during the rebellion. This was before he swore that oath to the memory of Nuts or whatever."

It infuriates me that he's talking about my allies this way, but I decide not to attack just yet.

"I took a lot of notes on the contraptions that Beetee and I invented together, and this was one of my favorites." Gales pulls his electronic tablet back out and begins reading. "'The device will produce flames that should lick through the skin of anyone within close range'-that's you, Prim-'and cause death from bleeding within two minutes.' Pretty strong stuff, huh?"

Prim is still gasping on the floor, struggling to breathe as the embers embedded in her skin continue to hiss.

"And since I have just enough time, I'd like to more thoroughly answer that question you asked me earlier." Gale settles back in his seat and puts his tablet away. "At this moment, the biggest 'R' I feel is regret. Regret that maybe the greatest man I ever met met his end at the hands of an insane, naïve, wimpy little shit like you."

I find it hard to take the compliment when he's spitting on a dying girl.

"That man deserved better," he finishes, gazing off into the distance.

Prim finally stops gasping and writhing, defeated by her wounds. Her charred head falls limp, and I feel a pang in my heart even though killing her myself was my main objective in coming here. Gale notices and gets up to start recollecting the money. That greedy piece of shit.

I'm about to burst in when his Mockingjay communicator buzzes. Funny, I didn't know he still carried that. I'm about to wonder who's contacting him when he says her name.

"Katniss," he answers the call, putting the device up to his ear. "I have tragic news. Your sister's dead."

His acting skills are immaculate; for a minute I almost believe that he had nothing to do with Prim's murder. This only adds to the reasons I want to kill him.

"I'm so sorry, Katniss," he drones on. "He put a bomb in her house disguised as a silver parachute from the Games."

_Me?_ That asshole is actually blaming this on me. Wow.

"Don't worry, Katniss. I got him," he lies again. "He's dead."

Now he's about to take credit for Prim's actions.

"If you ever feel like paying your respects," he looks up from collecting the money for a second. "Come to the wilderness between Districts 12 and 13. Walk just outside the entrance to the underground part of 13 and pick some dandelions from the woods. Then, take those dandelions to the secret graveyard where District 12 nobility is buried, find the headstone marked with our heroine Maysilee Donner, and lay the little yellow weeds there. Because you will be standing at the final resting place of Peeta Mellark."

I'm standing a few feet away from the door, ready for when he comes out.

He puts the last of the money in the cloth of the parachute, the only part to escape the detonation, and grabs my knife as well. "Alright, I'll be there in an hour or so. See you then."

The moment he launches the door open and steps outside with my knife and Prim's rightful money, I meet his face with my feet and send him flying back inside.

When we both fall into the house and land on the floor, he drops the money and we both jump to our feet. He tries to open the knife from its sheath, but I resheath it and push him back into the wall. He decides to use the sheathed knife to fight me instead, and pushes me into an old television that once sat in the Everdeen's original living room. Being resourceful, I rip an antenna off the old device and whip it across his face.

He flinches before the thin piece of metal even touches his face, obviously still traumatized by his floggings at the hands of Commander Thread. I give him a laceration on each cheek and he falls backwards onto Prim's counter.

He looks horrified, and tries his best to get back up. He shields himself with the knife and tries to unsheath it again, but I stand in front of him and hold it closed. He slides the knife out just enough to expose the blade and pushes it toward my neck while sweat still drips down my Adam's apple. Before the knife can reach my throat, I kick him in the shin and he bends backward onto the counter again. I try to slit his throat as well, but he head-butts me back into the center of the room.

The next thing I know, we're both on the ground after crashing into each other and sending one another flying backwards to opposites sides of the room.

Even though he manages to get up before I do, I grab Prim's lamp and break it against his face. I stand up to attack, but he steals the lamp and clamps it down on my bare, dirt-covered foot. When I double over to grab my probably broken foot, he kicks me in the face with his boot and sends me flying backwards onto Prim's rocking chair.

The backing of the chair collapses and I am stuck on what is now just a stool, only my back touching the seat of it as my limbs flail wildly. I give up my starfish-like balancing act and fall behind the piece of furniture, but Gale stands proudly and attempts to draw the knife, only to lose all of his prestige by hitting the ceiling and being completely unable to release it from its leather cage.

I take advantage of the delay and douse him with a medium-sized tin of raw goat's milk, the same milk which Prim had taken from Lady the day before and had been sitting out all night. The disgusting white liquid splashes across Gale's front and causes him to sheath the knife and stagger backwards.

"Gross," he sneers as he wipes some of it from his face with his sleeve.

When he brings down my knife in retaliation, I stand and bring the half-chair before my face to protect myself. We have a small fight with the chair and knife until I do something miraculous: I maneuver the chair to capture the knife in its legs. Once I do, I throw both objects aside, wrenching away Gale's weapon.

He follows the items with his eyes in surprise before returning his attention to me and throwing a punch my way. I'm a little bit too proud of my previous trick to block myself, so I admit, he hits me around a lot. At one point, I just barely dodge his foot in time for him to smash the wall right where my head was.

I then bend down and pick up Prim's washboard. The thin wooden contraption does not last long, because I use it as a makeshift club. Gale dodges it and leaps over Prim's kitchen counter, landing on her charred body as I inadvertently smash the washboard on the bar. Gale, ever the asshole, uses Prim's body as leverage to jump up and grab the edges of two ceiling tiles. Like an evil acrobat, he swings his legs to kick me across to the other side of her sitting area.

I land on the chair Prim had been sitting in that leans against the wall of the bathroom. Suddenly, I get an idea. When Gale stands several feet before me, poised for a menacing flying kick, I decide to use his cockiness against him. When he is almost upon me, I stand to dodge his kick and use his momentum to launch him through the wall into the bathroom.

Shower tiles fall around him as he struggles to adjust to the fact that he is now in another room of the house. I hop in and join, wrapping my arms around his neck as he tries in vain to return to the sitting area where my knife is.

We grapple on the floor, the wrestler and the hunter, him trying to elbow me as I choke the life out of him. I find myself thanking my brothers for putting me in choke-holds for all of my childhood, because now I have Gale in a near perfect one. When I get tired of him elbowing me, I dunk his head into Prim's toilet and try to drown him.

He struggles for a bit, but soon discovers the flush switch on the toilet and uses it to get rid of some of the water. Unfortunately, he starts to breathe again and elbows me in the crotch, forcing me off of him. I roll backwards into the shower curtain and double over in pain. I only push the curtains aside when I hear him start to leave the bathroom.

I chase him out, and the two of us engage in one final fist fight. He gets a few good jabs in, but I am unable to hit him once. After he dodges my fist, I end up making a large hole in the wall instead. I try to pursue him in the hallway, but he only turns around to kick me far from him. I land and bash my head into a chest in what I can only guess is Prim's closet.

He smirks at me as he whips around to return to the sitting area and retrieve my knife. I am about to acquiesce when my eye catches something. My vision darts around the dark closet while I pant faster than ever, and I discover a glint in the corner of the small room. I immediately grab it and scoot into the light of the hallway.

The object is a knife just like mine. Funny, Prim must have lied about not having a knife anymore. I unsheath the weapon and read an inscription inside.

_"To my sister Prim, the only person I'm sure I love -Katniss"_

I feel a smile flash across my face as I punctuate the quote with her name, and I'm not sure why.

The knife is more than a few years old, but it will have to do, because I am now standing menacingly at the end of the hallway, facing Gale who has now returned with my own unsheathed knife.

I am calm, but he is all out of sorts. He looks surprised at the knife.

"What's that?" he gestures to the weapon.

"Prim's Latier knife," I respond coolly.

"She said she didn't have one anymore," he inquires, resting my knife on his shoulder.

"Well I guess she's a liar then."

There's a short uncomfortable silence as we process the fight that is about to go down. But before we kill each other, I have one last piece of business.

"Gale," I start.

"Peeta."

"There's one thing I've always been curious about: what exactly did you say to Haymitch for him to let you get back with Katniss? Don't lie, I've seen the propos. I know that you two began to see each other again. It doesn't surprise me that she would go so quickly back to you, but for Haymitch to allow that to happen, you must've done _something_."

Gale is silent for a minute, but he then begins to burst out laughing. I am appalled.

"Are you sure your stay in the Capitol didn't permanently damage your brain?" he gasps. "When you let Katniss go for my girl Madge, Katniss didn't come crawling back to me! I don't care what the propos suggested, she would never get back with me no matter what I did. Even now, she won't give me the time of day."

I am thoroughly confused. "But...I don't understand. It seemed-"

"Shouldn't you know better than most people that things are not always how they seem?"

He's right, but I don't admit it. How could it be that Katniss isn't with Gale now? Nothing makes sense.

"Besides," Gale continues, "Haymitch would have killed me. Of course, that's not a problem, since I killed him first."

My jaw drops. The words hit me faster than I can process them. Of all of the pain that Gale has caused me, this is one of the worst things he could do. Haymitch was my mentor, my friend, my father figure. My thoughts are pierced only by his ensuing laughter

"I poisoned his liquor," Gale explains between cackles. "The old drunk bastard was just lying on the floor, pointing to me and saying that he would 'give me his word.' But I told him that, to me, the word of an old drunk bastard like him was worth _less than nothing_."

I'm only half listening, too hurt to take in the words.

"That's right," he confirms. I watch the crease between his gray eyes, the wrinkles of his nose, and crook of his smile as the evil displays clearly across his face. "I killed your mentor. And now, I'm gonna kill you too! With your own knife, no less. This knife will become mine, and with you out of the way, in the very near future, Katniss will finally give up and let me take over."

Gale Hawthorne had Katniss for all of our childhood, keeping her away from me. He continued to keep part of her heart even after I had tried to win it in the first Games. And in the end, he stole her from me completely after I just had won her over. Now, he's promising to take her for himself.

This makes absolutely no sense. If Katniss doesn't want me, why am I a barrier between Gale and her? All I know is one thing: I can't let Katniss be seduced by a murderer. There's no doubt in my mind that Gale has kept and will continue to keep the secret of Haymitch's death, and I know that he will always frame me for Prim's. Katniss deserves a lot of pain, but she does not deserve to live the rest of her life settling for this piece of shit standing before me. In fact, no one deserves to have to deal with him. _Ever_.

"Asshole," I say, "You don't have a future."

I step back into fighting stance and lift my knife to my face. His face softens as he does the same. We look at each other from across the hall and I realize that this is the moment I have been waiting most of my life for. All of the afternoons when I watched enviously from the bakery window as Katniss and Gale returned to the Seam after trading with my father, all of the pent up anger at seeing his smug face walk alongside Katniss in the hallways of school, and all of the betrayal I felt after watching them together in the propos lead up to this moment.

Even though he is smiling at me cockily, I am fuming. I can feel my bloodshot eyes boiling with rage as my dirt-covered skin grows flush with goosebumps of fury. We stare at each other for a moment, the Victor and the soldier, the baker and the miner, the lover and the fighter. It is time for this rivalry to end.

He screams a battle cry and rushes towards me. I do the same, hitting him with full force as we converge right outside of the bathroom door. Our knifes lock together, the sharp blades threatening to slice into one another, barred only by their mutual sturdiness. We push with all of our might, each of us trying to push our knife into the other. The veins in my bare arms and chest push up against my pale skin, a visible sign of my struggle.

The tables turn on me in a matter of seconds. I may be stronger and steadier than Gale, but I am a bit more awkward due to my prosthetic leg. I lose my footing for a second and begin to slide backwards, prompting an eerie smirk from Gale. My shocked blue eyes meet his dark gray irises in fear that I may actually lose this fight.

But then my eye returns to the knives between us; mine, in particular. I remember something that Beetee put in my knife, something that only my knife contains. A mechanism that represents something that I have always been there to kindle in Katniss. Something that Gale always had too much of. Something that led to Prim's downfall and will now lead to Gale's.

With my last bit of strength, I reach over and flip on the fire mechanism on my knife.

Gale's body catches ablaze and he drops everything. The man screams and begins to roll around on Prim's bathroom floor. Pitiful moron.

What Gale didn't know about my knife that he wanted so very badly was that Beetee's fire mechanism will catch anyone close to it on fire if they are not careful enough. Because the flame was so close to him and he didn't know that it was coming, he suffered the consequences.

What's more, it releases amounts of flammable liquid that are embedded into the person afflicted. It will keep him burning. Indefinitely.

He screams in pain as he rolls around on the tiled floor, trying in vain to extinguish the flames as they slowly kill him. He clutches his melting skin which has already fallen off much of his face.

"You fucking prick!" he swears. "I'm gonna fucking kill you! You're sick! Where are you? I'm gonna fucking kill you, you son of a bitch! You asshole!"

I watch him stoically, oblivious to his pain. He grasps at the air, knocks furniture down, and spits on the floor as he searches for me.

I walk calmly down the hallway to find the sheath for my knife and catch a glimpse of the parachute bomb that killed Prim. Only the base remains. It sounds like it's ticking, so I go over to it.

To my surprise, this is a double explosion bomb. And there's less than a minute left on the dial for the second explosion.

Without hesitation, I sheath the knife and bust open the door. I give Gale one glance over my bare shoulder. Most of the flesh is gone from his face, but he's still screaming.

"You piece of shit! I'm coming for you, you fucking prick! You're a fucking prick!"

I limp down Prim's steps and onto her lawn where Gale's Capitol class hovercraft is parked. I slam the door behind me loudly and step into the craft.

I can still hear Gale crashing around Prim's home when I turn the machine on and hover away. The explosion that follows does not faze me, and I don't bother to look at the smoke cloud in the rear-view mirror. All I can think of is my next goal: I am going to kill Katniss.

OoO

I promise I will update more often! Only a little bit more to go!


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 13: Face to Face

Part 1

Gale's craft handles surprisingly well on the rough terrain of the woods outside District 12. Even though there is a path here for travellers, high-tech vehicles like this rarely pass through, so I'm glad when the machine doesn't lose its coordination on the uneven ground. I didn't opt to let the maintenance men in District 13 service the machine while I spent the night in their infirmary, since they surely would have found out that the thing was stolen. It wouldn't be the only thing I'd lied about, though; I told them my injuries from my fight with Gale were hunting-related.

Ever since the end of the war, Panem has paid much more attention to District 12. People have come from all over the country to try their luck in a flourishing new district which was once the poorest. The fences that once held all of the citizens in are now much smaller, now only serving the purpose of keeping predatory animals out. There is no electricity running through the metal, and there are gates every quarter mile which can be freely opened by anyone who wants to leave the district for another one or for the woods outside of it.

Speaking of the woods, many people have moved out there. When I was growing up, only people like Katniss and Gale with no other choice would go out to the woods to hunt. Now, people from all over Panem live out in the wilderness. The rich and the poor live side by side, the latter making small homesteads and hunting to get by and the former using their money to take advantage of the easy lifestyle. Many of them may very well be war criminals from the Capitol hiding from the new government. Who knows. I'm only interested in one of them.

Of course, I have no idea where she is. The woods are expansive beyond imagination, and I can barely take a hike through them without killing myself. Since I can't scour the forest looking for her, I need someone to tell me where she is, just as I needed Plutarch to tell me where the rest of my victims were. However, I do not plan on cutting off my next guide's arm.

Like any girl who hated her mother and lost her father would, Katniss collected a number of parental figures. Haymitch was one, but he's gone now thanks to Gale. Beetee was another, but he doesn't know where she is. Her mother is in District 4 and probably hasn't contacted Katniss in years. That leaves only one person who would know Katniss' location. And I really hope she doesn't offer me any of her stew.

After entering the district through one of the gates of the fence, I follow a road to what was once the Seam. I am careful to avoid the Merchant part of the town, as I do not want the painful memories of my family to be brought back to me. As I enter the Seam, I can't help but smile at seeing happy children playing in the street, hopefully with full bellies. After passing through a few neighborhoods, I arrive at the Hob.

The thrifty old market I sort of remember is nothing like it once was. For one, the place is legal now. Everyone here sells their goods without having to worry about Peacekeepers confiscating them and inflicting harsh punishments. I park the hovercraft not far from the entrance to the warehouse where the person I am about to visit once did and hopefully still does feed many Seam residents. I have washed up since my encounter at Prim's; my hair is slicked back and I am wearing sunglasses thick enough to hide my appearance somewhat. My denim pants and leather jacket flow in the light breeze. A few vendors give me suspicious looks, not knowing what a person with such nice clothes is doing in a place like this.

I strut into the warehouse and find that the place is now more of a café. There are tables set up every few yards with mostly old people and day laborers enjoying a beer and some stew before returning to their days. It's midday, possibly lunchtime.

I turn my body to the right to survey the space and pivot my foot counterclockwise until I see my target. I walk past the chatting Seam citizens without noticing them, because I am only interested in the person who possesses the information that I need.

Greasy Sae sits at a table in the back of the room, reading a book very carefully. She is older than she was when I last saw her, wearing reading glasses and holding a cane even though she is sitting. She probably has trouble getting around these days; and knowing her a little, she probably doesn't get around much. But hopefully she knows Katniss' whereabouts.

When I approach, I clear my throat and politely begin speaking.

"Miss Sae?" I ask.

She slowly looks up from her book, uninterested until she lays her eyes on me. Once she looks me up and down, she cracks what I think is a flirtatious smile and replies.

"'Miss'?" she mocks. "I ain't no spry chicken. Too old to deserve that title. Call me Greasy Sae."

"May I sit with you, Greasy Sae?" I reply in a husky voice.

"Please do."

I sit down across from her and settle in calmly.

"I'm the owner of this place," she tells me, as if I don't already know. "We get a lot of regulars in here, but I don't recognize you. What's a pretty boy like you doing in the Seam? Judging by those blonde locks, I'd say you're not from around here."

I smile politely and shake my head. "Does one need a reason to converse with such a beautiful woman as yourself?"

"Cut the shit, boy. Just 'cause you got an ass like two perfect rolls of bread does not mean that you can use flattery to walk all over me." My eyebrows lift in surprise. "That's right, I noticed. You turned to the side when you walked in. You'd have to be wearing a damn cloak to cover up that butt."

"Well I'm flattered," I say with a smile so that she'll stop talking about my ass.

"You damn well better be," she says as she sits back in her seat and sets her book down. "What can I do for you, boy?"

I lean forward and cross my arms. I let out a huge sigh before asking her, because I know that she won't answer right away. "Where's Katniss?"

She stares at me, eyes narrowed, for thirty whole seconds before finally grunting and letting her guard down.

"Peeta Mellark," she says, nodding. "How could I not have recognized one of the only boys in District 12 who wasn't a scrawny little thing? I can definitely see what Katniss saw."

While she takes another shameless look at my body, I am slightly confused. When did Katniss ever admit to having physical feelings for me?

When she's done checking me out, we regain eye contact and she seems to read my thoughts.

"Oh, don't act so surprised. She practically flooded her underwear thinking about you. Rarely admitted it, but I knew it was always you."

I haven't even smelled her stew yet, but I'm already nauseous from listening to this woman who could be my grandmother talk so freely about sexual matters.

"I remember when Katniss was only eleven, a few days after her family almost starved, she came in here clutching a dandelion to her chest for dear life. She leaned against the wall over there and just started playing with the little yellow head of the flower. I asked her what her deal was and she nearly jumped out of her shoes, not knowing somebody was watching her."

My mouth must be hanging open in suspense at hearing this, because Greasy Sae is laughing at me.

"She _had to _explain herself, of course; you know her. Know what she said? 'I just like the color.' It was at that very moment that I knew Katniss was a fool for you damn blonde Merchant boys."

I'm at a loss for words. But I still don't see this anecdote as accurate evidence that Katniss ever had affection for me. "That doesn't mean-"

"Can it for a second," she interrupts. "I ain't finished."

I hold my tongue, curious to hear what else she is going to tell me.

"There was another time she came in here. It was before the Quarter Quell, after your proposal, and before Thread came in and ruined my business. Katniss was a lonely old girl in those days on account of Gale spending most of his time in the mines. She had just traded most of her game and came in for some stew. I had coverage of your engagement up on the old projector behind me. She sat at the bar, quickly spooning the squirrel meat down her gullet and trying to block out the news."

I wonder for a second why she is sharing this information. She must know that reminding me of Katniss' indifference is hurtful.

"You just wait," she read my mind again. "All of the sudden, they cut the gushy shit and Caesar started talking about you only, something about how you'd been baking for our orphanage. Once he changed the subject from the fake romance to just you, the generous Peeta Mellark, she stopped eating and her head shot up to look at the screen. I had never seen her so genuinely interested in something that it made her stop nourishing herself with food that she so rarely could afford.

"Caesar started talking about how you went down to the orphanage to teach them a few wrestling moves. Things started getting suggestive when he mentioned that you donned your old uniform. 'A bit snug in a few places, but I'm sure our female viewers won't mind seeing it,' was what Caesar said. He snickered when some sensual music began playing and a few women in the audience cat-called the photos of you in profile wearing that skin-tight uniform and bending over to teach them a new move. Seriously, your ass was plastered all over the screen behind him."

I blush a great deal, having had no idea that there were cameras there. I only wanted to help the kids to get active to improve their spirits. I didn't even think about how the uniform was too tight for me; District 12 children are used to not having clothes that fit them and I thought seeing an almost-grown young man in that uniform would make the kids laugh.

"Now, _I _scoffed at this cheesy display. I thought it was wrong they were using you like a sex symbol to entertain the Capitol women. But _Katniss _thought differently."

No way, I think.

"_She_ licked her lips immediately in an effort to moisten her dry mouth, eyes glued to the screen and hand in between her legs to stifle the growing heat. She gulped loud and couldn't seem to keep that jaw of hers closed. She liked what she saw.

"I noticed and approached her slowly, but she didn't notice me. So, I stuck my hand in front of her face and literally snapped her out of it with my fingers.

"'You okay, girl?' was all I had to say before she practically jumped out of her shoes like she had done when I pointed out the dandelion. I whispered a little remark about her taking a serious liking to the boy she didn't really love and she was fuming. Grabbed her bag and ran out without looking at me or her unfinished stew. Face was redder than ten tomatoes."

I don't believe what Greasy Sae had just relayed to me, but a part of me does. Could it be that Katniss was actually attracted to me? Greasy Sae wouldn't lie to me, and she knew Katniss better than most people. This is incredibly confusing.

"I don't know what to say," I admit.

"I do," she goes on. "I say, that if I was your age, I would have taken you to the Slag Heap for some special attention any day."

I decide that this is her way of trying to change a subject that is clearly making me uncomfortable. However, this subject isn't helping me much.

She looks outside at my parked hovercraft. "The hell's that? I heard you were driving the _Cock Wagon_ or something like that."

I smile. "My _Penismobile_ died on me."

She seems disappointed. "That's what it was! Shame." Then she gets serious. "Katniss shot you in the heart, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I would've been much nicer. I would've just cut the rest of your bum leg off. Below your ass cheek, of course; wouldn't wanna touch that butt." She winks at me.

I can't help but shake my head at the table top as I fake a smile.

"You'll have to excuse me," she says, showing remorse for her bluntness for the first time. "Have a drink with me! LaRie!"

When she yells over to the counter, a young girl comes over with two cold beers. I look up at her through my sunglasses and notice that she is Greasy Sae's mentally impaired granddaughter who used to wander the Hob. She still has a vacant look in her eye, but doesn't look unhappy.

"Thanks, hun," Greasy Sae tells her before her granddaughter returns to her place behind the counter.

Then she regains her bearings. "What were we talking about?"

I pause for a moment, losing my patience. "Katniss. _Where's_ Katniss?"

"Oh, right!" she says, contemplative. "Katniss is deep in the meadow. Under the willow. I'll draw you a map." Then she grows conniving. "You know why I'm helping you?"

"No," I answer honestly.

"Because Katniss would want me to."

I shake my head. "Now that I don't believe."

"Oh c'mon," she says, leaning back and taking a swig of beer. "How the hell else would Katniss get a piece of that ass again?"

OoO

It's a very short ride to Katniss' home. I didn't require a map from Greasy Sae; I know where the meadow is.

Before leaving the district gate, I park the hovercraft and give the guards a tip to look after it. I walk through the gate and outside to the meadow. Looking out into the meadow, I can just barely see the cottage where Katniss lurks. That is where I am headed.

I take my time walking there. It's been a day and a few hours since my conversation with Greasy Sae; I figured I needed all the rest I could get to face Katniss and Greasy Sae was more than happy to provide lodging.

I'm wearing denim pants that are slightly tight around my thighs but a bit looser around my calves. On my torso I wear a light blue button-down t-shirt with a collar and a leather jacket over it. My belt buckle is shining thanks to the little bit of light coming from the sunset, and my sandals are not helping to conceal the sound of my footsteps, so I know Katniss will not be surprised when I arrive.

I feel my back to make sure that my knife is still in its sheath safely and grab the handgun in the holster at my belt. I'm only a hundred yards from the house now, so I need to be ready.

The place is relatively new and, according to Greasy Sae, was built by Katniss' own two hands. The stones and wood are stacked nicely to create sturdy walls with few windows. The porch is empty and there are no lights on in the house, so she may not even be home. But I know she's there; I can sense it.

When I walk up the steps, I am disappointed to find that they are nicely built. Once I find a flaw in Katniss' carpentry, I will be satisfied, but that has not happened yet.

I tap on the door, and it opens up slowly. She was definitely expecting me. As soon as I see the inside of the home, I raise the gun before me and stand alert.

My elbows locked, I walk slowly through the place and point my gun in every corner that Katniss could be in. The place is dark, so I can't see much to begin with. I notice her bow hanging on the wall with a quiver and a few arrows before the couch, so she must be home because she would never leave it.

As I search the place, I finally find a source of light where she could be. A glow is coming from the back door that leads to the outside, and I know she must be there. I walk towards the exit, ready to face her.

I stop at the doorway and lean against it. I can hear movement just outside the open door. I keep my back to the wall and hold the gun to my chest. The cold metal presses against my bare skin because I neglected to zip up the jacket and only buttoned a few of the shirt's buttons. But I don't care; once I whip around and make my move, my objective over the past few months will be met.

Do it, Peeta, I tell myself. Do it.

I whip around and stop in my tracks, flabbergasted.

There stands not Katniss, but a little girl who looks much like her. She is about three or four years of age, with Katniss' dark hair, sharp nose and olive skin-tone. She is wearing a little nightgown and the signature Everdeen smirk. I would have just dismissed her as the child of Katniss and Gale that was only a fetus the day I was gunned down. But I am slightly wrong, because her most striking feature is the first thing I see.

Her eyes are not Katniss' eyes. They are not Gale's eyes. They don't come from the Seam. The two big, blue eyes staring at me as the little girl attached to them points a toy bow and suction-cup arrow at me are unmistakably mine.

"Freeze, Daddy!"

That's what my daughter says.

She is my daughter.

OoO

_Please leave comments! We're coming to a close!_


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Face to Face

Part 2

There are a number of things that have happened to me in my life that I would never have expected. I never expected to be in the Hunger Games. I never expected to win the Hunger Games. I never expected to be re-entered into the Hunger Games and I never expected that I would unknowingly be a pawn in a rebel plot during those Games. But what is happening to me right now is the exact opposite of what I was expecting, and it blows all of those other things right out of the water.

I have come to Katniss' self-built cottage deep in the meadow to take life from her, but I have instead received life from her. Before me stands not Katniss, but a much smaller version of her. The girl with the dark hair and big blue eyes pointing a suction-cup bow and arrow at me is the opposite of what I was expecting. I would never have expected that I would have a daughter.

I'm frozen, and not because she just asked me to freeze. My mouth gapes and my eyes widen when I process the words and realize who she is. My gun is still pointed at her, but I'm not the one who fires.

She is.

A suction-cup arrow lands on the wall next to me, but I don't budge. My eyes begin to water as I continue to process the scene before me. A glint of disappointment flashes through her huge eyes, her thin, dark eyebrows slant, and her full lips purse in frustration much like Katniss'. She's beautiful, especially when angry. Just like her mother, I think, before pushing any positive images of Katniss out of my head.

My thoughts are interrupted by Katniss herself.

She is sitting on the ground next to where my daughter is standing. They are both on the edge of a deck that Katniss has built, pointing suction-cup bows and arrows at me. Katniss hasn't aged a day, though it pains me to admit it. Even though she is only twenty-three like me, I was expecting the stress of the past few years to have aged her. Once again, the opposite of what I was expecting has come true.

Her dark hair is pulled pack in a ponytail, a stark contrast to our daughter's, which is messy and freely draped over her little shoulders. Katniss is wearing a loose blouse which reveals a bit of cleavage that has increased in size since I last saw her, a side-effect of having a child. Her black leggings, clearly worn around the house only, cling to her in a way that would appear teasing if a million emotions weren't already running through my head. Her bare feet lift off the ground when she finally opens her mouth to say something.

"Oh!" she shouts, clutching her abdomen in mock pain. "He got us, Hope!"

She leans back and lays on her side where she was sitting, her mouth gaping and her eyes squinting. She's holding back a smile and clutching her wound, pretending to die. As if _I _have shot _her_.

Is she _playing_? Is Katniss Everdeen actually playing a game right now?

My daughter does not hesitate to follow her mother's lead, but with more of a dramatic display.

"Oh, I'm dying!" she moans. She drops her bow and suction-cup arrow and clutches her chest as she staggers backwards, groaning incoherently and staring at the ground in a fake pre-death dance. She spins in her nightgown and continues to groan far beyond taste. "Oh, I'm dying, I'm dying…."

Katniss cuts in, still holding her fake bow. "Fall down, Hope. Daddy shot us." She smiles good-naturedly, another rare action of hers.

My daughter obeys her mother, dropping to the ground as if she really had been shot.

Almost five years ago, my baby shot me down. Now, I've just shot down the baby I didn't know I had.

I finally snap out of it and realize that I am still holding my gun at arm's length which is pointed at my daughter and fake ex-fiancée. They both seem unfazed; my daughter because she thinks I'm playing along, and Katniss because she knows I wouldn't dare to shoot now. I drop my arms and let them go slack completely, feeling defeated. My face contorts in a way that is almost as painful as the realization I am experiencing. How could this be possible? How could I have had a daughter? Tears form in my eyes when Katniss imitates the sound of the cannon from the Hunger Games.

"_Boom!_" she shouts, then does her best impression of Caesar Flickerman. "It appears that the male District 12 tribute, the dashing Boy with the Bread, has taken down two of his own tribute mates! But why was there only one _boom_ of the cannon? Could it be that one of the fallen tributes is not really dead?"

My daughter struggles to hold in her giggles at her mother's commentary, clearly wary of where this is going and excited. I still stand dumbfounded, my feet spread in the same position as if I were aiming the gun.

"It seems that the younger tribute, the beautiful little Hope, has not actually perished!" Katniss continues with the charade, causing our daughter to be filled with excitement. "She must have picked up a bullet-proof vest at the Cornucopia, because even though Peeta thinks she is dead on the ground, she was not at all affected by his gun!"

"I got a vest, Daddy!" my daughter sits up to tell me in excitement.

"Hey, get back down there!" Katniss commands. "You're pretending, remember?"

Once again, the girl obeys.

"So, as the would-be victor slowly approaches what he thinks is a fallen tribute, what will little Hope do?"

My daughter takes the cue, and stands up as quick as she can, almost tripping on her nightgown in the process. She picks up the fake bow and arrow and fires a suction-cup, shooting me right in the heart where Katniss did almost five years ago. I don't flinch; I just let the thing cling to my chest for a second before it falls to the ground. She takes it upon herself to make another cannon sound. _Boom_, the same sound my heart is making.

"Oh," I say, not knowing what else I can say. A single tear rolls down my cheek as I stare at my daughter. She stares at me expectantly, wondering why I'm not dying.

"You're dead, Daddy," Katniss says, trying to coerce me. "So, die."

"Oh," I repeat. I want to address my daughter in my stupor, but I just met her and don't know her name for the life of me, even though I'm sure Katniss has said it a few times already when I was still trying to process the situation.

"Hope," Katniss continues my sentence. For once, _she_ is the one anticipating _my _needs.

"Oh, Hope," I begin, letting two more tears roll down my face before snapping out of it. I clutch my heart immediately and whirl around dramatically. "I should have known! You are the victor!"

In the most dramatic display of my life, I spin around again and fall down on the grass, landing right on top of the sheathed knife strapped on my back and not even caring. I close my eyes and do my best to play a dead man, trying to beat Katniss' impression.

The moment I hit the ground, I hear Hope drop her bow and then hear her little bare feet run off the deck and across the grass to where I lie.

She rouses my lightly. "Oh, Daddy. Don't die. I was just playing!"

I can't help it. A smile cracks across my dead lips. When I open my eyes, I will be looking at the least expected thing I have. I never thought it would be possible to have a child, and I thought that I would never be able to love anyone again. But I do now. I instantly am in love with this little girl that I didn't know I had. All I have to do is open my eyes.

Once I do, I am met with the stare of two big blue eyes so much like my own. Her Everdeen scowl twists into a smile when I grin and stroke her hair to place it behind her ear.

"I know," I say. I sit up and embrace her harder than I embraced Katniss when we won our first Games. I didn't know I had a daughter, but I'm glad she's here. She returns my hug fiercely and I grip the back of her head, never wanting to let go. I feel my face turning serious at the thought of the lost years, the years when I didn't know about this little angel.

"I told her that you were asleep, but that one day you'd come back to her," Katniss' voice pierces through the reunion, and I instantly hate her for it. I glare at her since our daughter can't see my face while hugging me. Katniss lies propped up on her side, fiddling with a suction-cup arrow. She avoids eye contact with me, having lost some of her previous positive demeanor while playing with Hope. "You know, one day, she asked me, 'If Daddy's been asleep since I was born, then how will he know what I look like?' And do you know what I told her? I said, 'Because Daddy's been dreaming of you.'"

What she means by that remark is "I've been lying to you about your father's location for the past four years and raising you on my own because I'm an evil bitch." I scowl at Katniss.

"Did you dream of me? I dreamt of you," Hope tells me, breathing into my neck.

I am almost insulted that she would even ask. "Every single night, Hope!" I say frantically, not wanting her for a moment to think that her feelings of father-daughter affection are not mutual. "Every single night!" I repeat, my voice cracking as another tear rolls down my cheek.

"I waited a long time for you to wake up, Daddy," she says innocently. Clearly she has no idea what really went on during the months surrounding her birth.

I can feel her beginning to loosen her grip on me and thus end our hug, so I drop the scowl and put on a smile for Hope's sake. I pull away and hold her in front of me at arm's length, then reach out to stroke her hair. She imitates the action on my blonde waves which I've tossed to the side of my forehead.

"Look at you," I say, mostly to myself, still at awe that I have a daughter. How could this have happened? The question makes a reappearance in my head before it is again pushed aside by my gratefulness and excitement. "My, my, my, what a pretty girl you are."

"You're pretty, too, Daddy," she tells me, and I can't help by laugh. She probably hasn't had much exposure to the male gender, so she doesn't know that boys don't usually like to be called pretty. But I couldn't care less; I know she means well.

My laugh dies down when Katniss walks over and squats beside us, threatening to peek in between our reunion.

"Tell Daddy what you said when I showed you his picture," Katniss urges Hope. I frown at her, glaring from my peripheral.

"Unh unh," she refuses, looking down at the ground and shaking her head. I smile at her timidity.

"Come on, shy girl," Katniss reaches out to tickle Hope, causing her to giggle and pull away slightly. I frown when Katniss' finger comes into my vision. "You know what you said. Come on, tell him!"

Hope stares at the ground and acquiesces, spilling the beans on what she said quietly. "I said you were the most handsomest man I ever saw in the whole wide world." She says the last few words dramatically, making me smile not at the compliment, but at her adorable shyness. I've missed too much.

"That's the truth," Katniss confirms. "That's what she said."

"Hope," Katniss inquires our daughter as she slices a small loaf of bread for her, "Don't you think Daddy has the most handsome eyes?"

I glare at Katniss for her attempt at flattery, and not just because I know she is trying to butter me up in front of our daughter and ease the tension. I am also angry at her because her kitchen that the three of us are in right now is incredibly well-built, and I am still searching for flaws in this cottage that Katniss has built. It is adorned with paintings of meadows, forests, and sunsets, all of which are mine. Why the hell would she have kept anything of mine?

"Yes," Hope answers immediately. She's sitting on a bar stool at the counter. Katniss is standing across from her, preparing her dinner. I am standing at the end of the counter, between them.

"In fact, they're better than handsome," Katniss says slyly as she begins to slice goat cheese for Hope, whom she implores, "What's better than handsome?"

Hope thinks for a second, pushing her hair back and responding confidently. "Dashing!"

"Yeah!" Katniss agrees with obvious pride in our intelligent daughter. "Daddy is dashing." She looks at me when she says this, and the amount of sincerity behind her sly smile is alarming. My glare is almost as imperceptible as my confusion, as I don't want my daughter to feel the tension. Katniss, however, has other feelings.

Her eyes return to her cheese-slicing when my affections are not returned. "You know, Hope," she begins, "Daddy's a little mad at Mommy right now."

"Why, Mommy? Were you being a bad Mommy?" Hope asks in a whimsical tone, clearly unconcerned. She must already have a strong hope that Katniss and I will work things out. I guess that makes sense considering her name, and I admire that quality, but there is no chance of that happening at all.

"I'm afraid I was," Katniss says, seeming to apologize to me. "I was a _real_ bad Mommy."

I give her another hidden glare, as if to say, "That doesn't even come _close_ to an apology."

Katniss doesn't notice this time. She begins to cut up fresh squirrel meat and changes the subject, addressing me instead. "Our little girl learned about life and death the other day. I've been slowly teaching her about the Games, about what Panem used to be like, and about what our lives used to be like." She pauses, expecting me to be upset, but I'm not; Hope needed to find out sometime. Katniss returns her attention to the girl in question. "Do you wanna tell Daddy about what happened to Buttercup?"

Hope grows quiet and stares at her lap. "I...killed him."

My eyes widen. Oh, no. Why would she do that?

"She came running into my room with the cat in her arms saying 'Mommy, Mommy! Buttercup's dead!'" Katniss puts the cheese and squirrel meat onto the bread slices. "And I said, 'Really? That's so sad. How did he die?'" She puts the sandwich onto a plate and offers it to Hope only when she answers a question: "And what did you say?"

Hope again speaks dejectedly. "I...stabbed him."

Katniss begrudgingly places the plate before Hope. "_Actually_ young lady, the words you so strategically used were, 'I _accidentally_ stabbed him.'"

Hope nods and I give her a look of disapproval, actually agreeing with Katniss.

Katniss grows solemn. "What was Buttercup doing before you stabbed him?"

Hope answers honestly. "Purring."

"And after you stabbed him, what was he doing then?"

Hope grows more silent. "Nothing."

"He stopped purring, didn't he?

Hope nods.

I'm surprised by what I'm hearing. Hope has killed her cat. The cat that Katniss and Prim grew up with. She needs to learn that this type of violence is wrong, and by the sound of the shame in her voice, I'd say Katniss has done a good job of teaching her that lesson.

"Now, isn't that the perfect example of life and death?" Katniss asks me as she makes a sandwich for herself with the same ingredients. "Buttercup purring and Buttercup not purring? It's so powerful, even a four-year-old with absolutely no concept of life and death can understand it."

"You loved Buttercup, didn't you?" Katniss asks Hope, who is now lying in bed. Katniss is hovering above our daughter, tucking her in. She's just taken away Hope's toy bow for the night, because play-time is over.

Hope nods, drawing the covers up around her. The bed, also probably Katniss' handiwork, is wide and sturdy, made from strong oak.

"Well, I love Daddy, too," Katniss reflects, looking away from Hope. "But what you did to Buttercup, I did to Daddy." Speaking of me, I'm standing in the doorway, watching Hope get tucked in and waiting my turn. I've removed my jacket and am now just wearing my collared short-sleeve shirt which is unbuttoned. If Katniss wants to tease me with her tight leggings and cleavage, then two can play at this game. However, making Katniss ache for me is not the only motivation for my open shirt; I also want to be comfortable and at ease in the presence of my daughter when I know that I will soon be killing her mother.

"You _stabbed_ Daddy?" Hope asks incredulously.

"Worse," Katniss clarifies. "I _shot_ Daddy." She imitates the action by pretending to pull back our daughter's toy bow. She closes one eye and sticks her tongue out just as she used to do. Why do I find myself noticing these kinds of things?

"Why, Mommy?" the girl asks innocently. "Did you not know what would happen?"

Katniss laughs. As if she of all people didn't know what happens when you shoot something. "No, I knew what would happen to Daddy if I shot him, but what I didn't know was what would happen to me."

Hope seems legitimately interested. "What happened to you?"

"I was very sad for a long time," Katniss responds, as if she actually cares about me. "And I learned that some things, once you do them, they can never be undone." It almost seems genuine, the regret in her voice, but I can't think about that right now. As soon as Hope falls asleep, I have a job to do.

"Is Daddy okay now?" she asks, her gentle voice warming my thawing heart.

"Why don't you ask Daddy?" Katniss suggests, turning to me and standing up, a suggestion for me to come in. I stroll into the room and lay on the bed next to my daughter, facing her. She lays on her side so that our noses touch.

"Are you okay, Daddy? Does it hurt?" she asks? Adorable.

"No, Hope. It doesn't hurt anymore," I respond patiently.

"Does it make you sick?"

"No, Hope. It made me sleep," I say softly. "That's why I haven't been with you; I've been asleep."

"But you're awake now, Daddy, right?"

I chuckle and nuzzle my nose against hers. "I'm _wide_ awake, pretty girl."

"Hope," Katniss cuts in. I turn my head to see that Katniss is now standing in the doorway where I was. "Would you like to watch something with Daddy before bed time?"

"Uh huh," says Hope, and then invites me. So polite.

"Sure!" I say. "What would you like to watch?"

"The Quarter Quell recap."

What?

Did I hear that correctly?

Katniss has not only saved copies of the Hunger Games recaps, but has allowed our daughter to watch them? She's suggesting the Quarter Quell recap with such energy that she must have already seen it. Why would Katniss be showing her these? I understand the need to educate her, but they're much too violent to show to a four-year-old! There must be a reason behind it….

Katniss resists. "No, Hope. The Quarter Quell recap is too long."

"Unh-unh," she contradicts her mother.

I think for a moment. I had no idea that the Gamemakers even recorded the recap of the 75th and final Hunger Games. After Katniss fired that arrow, a move that sent this whole gory story into motion, the arena was destroyed and all connection was cut. How could they have recorded that? I'm curious, and I have to know how it all ended, according to the cameras.

Plus, there's something behind Katniss' eyes right now. A hidden emotion that seems to want me to watch the Quell. I acquiesce; maybe I _need_ to see it.

"No, it's not too long," I tell Katniss, looking her straight in her gray eyes.

She glares back at me with her steely stare, possibly wary of my inner motives. Either that, or she's just upset that I've undermined her authority and gotten our daughter to go against her. After all, Katniss has raised her and I've only been here for an hour.

But Katniss acquiesces, too. "Well then," she says as she pulls Hope's bedroom door closed, "I'll leave you to watch it, then." Her light tread trails down the hallway.

Hope eagerly hops out of bed with me and shows me to her bookcase where the taping of the Quell is located. She points up to it excitedly, yanking on the corner of my shirt and begging me to get it down for her while she bounces on her tiptoes. I smile good-naturedly and pull the jacket containing the small disc down. Once I do, her tiny hands yank it from my large ones and place it into the mouth of a projector next to her bed. I am jealous for a moment that my daughter enjoys such great technological advances while I lived in squalor at her age, but my envy quickly turns to relief that she will never have to suffer the poverty that I did. She turns on the projector almost as quickly as she turns off the light, and she tucks herself under the covers before I can even get in the bed.

We both lie on our right sides, facing the image of the projector on her wall. I snuggle up behind her, allowing her little body to rest against my chest. She uses the bicep of my right arm as a pillow and lets me drape my left arm over her to hold her two little hands in mine. Frankly, I couldn't care less if we actually watch the Quell or not; I just want to enjoy this time with my daughter. The comfort and bliss that I feel relaxing with her now is unlike any other form of happiness I've experienced in my life. My daughter is all that I could ever hope for, and all I want to do is hold her tight and keep her safe and warm against my bare chest.

My need to protect her soon heightens beyond reason once the Quell starts. Seeing the recaps of Katniss and my interviews with Caesar sends a chill up my spine of the anxiety I felt in the days leading up to the Games portion of the whole affair. I do however, chuckle a bit at the mention of Katniss' fake pregnancy. However, I push all thoughts of that out of my head before I confuse myself. After all, I still don't know how Hope came to be.

When the Games start, I witness for the first time the heroic actions of Katniss. Despite all of the hatred I have for this woman, she seems to have fought very hard for me and her other allies during the Games. I spend a great deal of time stealing unsure glances at Hope, wondering if all of the violence is too much for her. She seems unfazed, however.

I'm still pondering why Hope has such a connection with violence when something sparks my attention.

"_Peeta?_" I hear a scream in a not-so-familiar tone of a familiar voice.

We're at the part of the Quell where I run into the force-field, and I'm lying on the ground, looking as dead as I felt at the time.

Katniss runs to tend to me, but is pushed away by Finnick, who immediately initiates CPR. I find it very ironic how he saved my life, and I just a couple weeks ago returned the favor by killing him in front of his son. So much for owing him one.

Katniss looks like she is going to kill Finnick before she regains her senses and realizes that he is only helping. She leans over me and pleads with my unconscious body to wake up, almost to the point where she is impeding Finnick from saving my life. She's sobbing uncontrollably, tears and snot dripping down her face as she begs me to come back to life.

What the hell is going on?

When I finally wake up, relief floods her face unlike anything I've ever seen before. Her tears turn from hysterical to blissful, and she moves to caress my hair and help me up to my feet. Once I am standing, she embraces me so hard that the force threatens to knock me back down. I have very little memory of most of this, so it is basically new to me.

Katniss continues to sob and snot on my shoulder, distress and relief playing on her face just like when she saved Prim from the Games. After watching all of this unfold, an incredibly confusing realization dashes across my mind.

Katniss was not acting during any of this. She could never have faked any of the emotions that she displayed on that day. Her sorrow at discovering my halted heartbeat was just as genuine as her relief at seeing me return to life. I look at Finnick in the background of the scene. He's watching Katniss embrace my unstable figure with a clear look of utter confusion etched on his chiseled face. Seeing him so surprised about something related to love is about as rare as seeing Johanna surprised by violence. This must have been the moment that Finnick was talking about before I killed him.

This is the moment when everyone but me realized that Katniss truly loved me.

This can't be. She spent so many months faking her love for me in order to keep us and our families alive. Did she have a change of heart? When did this happen? Why did it end? _Did_ it end? A million questions run through my mind as my daughter watches the suspenseful fog scene below my arm. She has no idea that I am questioning her mother's former feelings for me right now. That is, if the feelings are indeed former.

My thoughts become more intense when I see the smile on Katniss' face upon receiving the pearl from me. Even though I actually remember this part, her smile seems so much more genuine from an outsider's perspective. Maybe it was genuine.

Could it be that Katniss loved me back then, and maybe still does? The question flies through my head for the rest of the Quell, spinning around in my mind like the Cornucopia spun us around the center of the arena.

When the scene with the kiss on the beach comes, I watch very closely. I listen to the conversation that she and I had. I feel a bit of shame at displaying so much self-pity at that moment, but that diminishes when she responds frankly. This time, when she says she needs me, I believe her. Without the pressure of the Games and the strong opinion that she does not love me back, I start to see the genuine look on her face that indicates she could not be lying.

When Katniss says she needs me, and our lips meet, I know that she means it.

The kiss seems much deeper, more languid, when I watch from the outside. I see the mutual passion surging through both of our bodies as we threaten to consume each other. Katniss grabs the hair on the back of my head to bring me closer to her and I am flooded with the recalling of the arousal I felt. Now, I know this feeling was one that she felt, too.

When Finnick and Johanna's plan forces us apart, and I see how hard she fights against it and how tightly she embraces me, I know that at that moment she loved me. This is the moment when our relationship became an ill-fated one; this is the moment when we lost each other.

But now there is just more confusion. Do those feelings that she had still exist? Is that why she keeps my artwork throughout her house? Is that why she spoke so fondly of me at dinnertime? Is that why she raised Hope to remember me? Those feelings couldn't still exist. We betrayed each other. If she still does love me, that would be a problem.

Because after all, I am here to kill Katniss.

**The next chapter will be the last one! It's been over two years since I started this story and I haven't updated in a while! I have been very busy, as I just started my first year of college and have been buried in essays. Thank you to everyone who has been following me since the beginning! I promise I won't disappoint you with the final installment!**


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